Animal
by Elessar King
Summary: Jon remembered cages. Trip remembered blank faces and pointed ears. T'Pol remembered forbidden dreams. Telemus remembered everything. Dark-AU.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This story requires a few words of explination. Some of it is based off of an rpg with my friend alderex, and some of it... I'm not sure where it came from. It is a darker version of the universe, but it is not officially the Mirror. There may also be other references to other scifi genres--when we were playing, anything was really fair game. So needless to say, I had a lot of outside inspirations as well. But I hope you enjoy it, please review I appreciate the feedback.

* * *

Animal

Jon's clearest memories were mostly of cages. If not cages, then of pain. He was aware of the before, but he didn't remember it. He hadn't consciously forgotten either—they made him. They made him fight too. And they put him in cages.

It was small—five steps by five steps, and the walls were solid while the door was barred and looked out onto the numerous other cages. Inside, it was naturally dark, unless light came in from the door, but that was only at certain times of the day. Other than walls, and Jon, the cell was empty with a hard metal floor.

He sat in the corner farthest from the door with his knees drawn up to his chest. Outside, he could hear talking. It meant they would come to see him soon. His owner had been trying to sell him, he had estimated, for a few weeks. It was sometimes difficult to tell, as he didn't have a choice in the matter and prospective buyers were only sometimes taken to view him. They would come today though—he recognized his owner's voice outside.

"I think you will be impressed," the owner said. "He can be difficult to handle, but he is more than worth the money and effort. No human has ever lasted as long as he has, with enhancements or not." He walked up to the cage, waiting for his companion to join him there. "And, rumors state that he was held by Romulans for a time. They must have been the ones to turn him into an animal," he added with a gold-tooth grin. Then he looked into the cell and his eyes grew dark. "Stand up. Come over here."

His owner was named Lek—he was well-rounded, especially in regards to his stomach, and he had thin greasy hair that he slicked back to cling to the back of his head as if he was afraid to loose the rest of it. Leg wasn't a tall being, but he thought of himself so, at least in personality. He was also quick to anger, Jon had found, and quick to punish.

With some reluctance, Jon got to his feet and walked a few steps to stand in the middle of his cell, but no closer. Lek had berated and punished him before for being tall and he didn't want to ignite the hatred again. Motioning with his hand, Lek stepped out of the way to give the buyer room to observe. It was as much of a chance for Jon to see where he might be going as well as for the buyer to look him over.

The new man, contrary to Lek's usual company, stood a head higher than him. He was thin, but not weakly built, as he had some muscle mass. It was difficult for Jon to tell sometimes as he wasn't always dealing with a familiar species—this man certainly wasn't. Neither was Lek. The man narrowed his pale eyes at Jon, looking him over critically, and Jon dropped his gaze to the ground. He'd seen enough of the man—his stern face and tight mouth.

But Jon himself knew he wasn't much to look at, if the man was taking this long, then he must be interested. He didn't particularly want to stay with Lek, but going somewhere new always presented new challenges. Sometimes better, sometimes worse.

The buyer raised a black eyebrow in contrast to his white hair. "What happened to his throat."

Lek's eyes widened in alarm, but he quickly smiled to cover it up. "An unfortunate accident, much before I came into possession of him. But, it ensures that he never talks back."

For another few moments, they were both quiet. Jon glanced up only once to see Lek looking between both of them with an anxious smile, and the other focused on his visual examination of Jon. At last, the buyer spoke. "Your price is too high, he's not impressive-looking."

Lek's eyebrows shot up towards his greasy hair. "Oh, he is! He's very impressive, if you require a demonstration..."

"No. That's not necessary. I'll give you 500,000 credits."

The owner blinked. "He's certainly worth more than that. 700,000."

The other man folded his arms calmly, looking very clearly as if he had nothing to loose—which he didn't, only Lek did. "600,000 is my final offer. You won't find anything better. Even for his apparent skill, your asking price is too high."

A low growl came from Lek and his eyes narrowed angrily. "Fine. Take him. But I expect the money first! You drive a hard bargain, Zane…"

Jon quickly looked him over again. Zane Forbin had a reputation among the free world that had even filtered into the slave world. His reputation was also rare for a man so young, which made it more intimidating. Zane stepped back away from the door to dig out a datapad from his pocket, to transfer the funds to Lek, and he motioned with one hand off to his left as a signal for two of his men to approach the cage for Jon.

They were both large muscular men, to almost rival Orion pirates, but their skin wasn't green, just tan. As they approached, Jon stepped back. He'd seen men like them before and while he had already decided staying with Lek could be bad, but Zane…

The men opened the door, and Jon retreated back into the corner to get away from them. There was really no way to escape by them, they were a force like a metal wall. One of the men produced a restraining collar and walked forward with a sinister grin to see a tournament slave so afraid of him—he clearly enjoyed his authority, and he must have a lot of it working for Zane. But Jon refused the collar, and he feared that more than the metal wall of the two men. As soon as the one got close enough, Jon swung his fist at his head, which connected with his jaw and made a cracking noise of two sets of bone with very little skin padding that were being struck together.

Hitting an owner was a crime punishable by death, but striking a guard or foreman or paid employee of the owner was not. It would at least gain him a beating—and he'd take that over the collar.

The man stumbled back, and the other one clenched his fists, but instead of trying to hit him, he tried to grab Jon instead. "You're going to regret that, slave!"

Jon ducked to get away from the hasty grab, and he swung at the second guard too. He had gone this far, he might as well deal out as much damage as he could. After all, that was what they trained him to do. While he was more occupied with taking the second guard down, the first pulled out a metal baton that had been holstered at his side, then he pressed the black button on the handle and an electric charge shot up the baton and it buzzed to life. Gritting his teeth, he swung it and hit Jon's shoulder, knocking him back from the other man.

Zane looked up from his completed transaction with Lek, and he took a step closer to the cage to observe the fight taking place. He had seen grown men reduced to the fetal position with a blow from an electrified baton, and if he had any doubts about Jon's strength, they were quieted.

Jon didn't even cry out, but he stumbled back and reached up to his shoulder in pain. Grinning again, the first man reached out to grab him by his throat. Jon's eyes widened in panic, and he hit at him hard, trying to get away with much more ferocity and desperation than the guard was executing in trying to catch him. One of his fists came in contact with the man's head, knocking him back and freeing Jon's neck from his grip. As soon as he was free, he brought his hands up to his throat protectively. But the second guard was finally able to grab him from behind and slapped the straining collar around his neck before he could get away.

It took them another few moments to subdue the rebellious slave, and during the time, Zane congratulated himself for purchasing such a rarity and he made a note to punish the guards for taking so much time as well as the slave. But he stood silently until they brought him out, with his arms also bound in front of him and the black metal collar around his neck.

As Jon flinched a little at the brightness, Zane looked him over once more in the light. Then with a sigh, he nodded to the men. "Take him to the ship, and house him with the other animals, where he belongs."

The men started to lead him away, and the cage door slammed shut.

* * *

Trip Tucker woke with a start, sitting up in bed and panting as if he had just run five miles for his life. He felt like he had too; his lungs ached and his skin was covered in sweat. Slowly he brought a shaky hand up to rub his face, and he glanced over at the other body in bed, who still seemed to be asleep. She was facing away from him, with the sheets draped over her bare shoulders, and rising and falling as she continued to sleep. He was glad to see it—he didn't really want to wake her up.

The night was warm, even in San Francisco, though it was nothing compared to a hot night in Florida. Trip swung his bare feet over the edge of the bed. For a moment, he leaned with his elbows on his knees, then he stood up and padded out into the front room.

The window was half open, so he pushed it open all the way and he leaned on the windowsill. Even though the night was warm, there was still a cool breeze that came off of the bay, and it made him shivered. For a moment, he felt that a tank-top and pair of shorts were too cold. Like space. Space was cold.

A pair of warm hands slid up his back, making him shiver again, and she leaned her head on his back, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

"Did you have another nightmare?" Hoshi asked sleepily.

"Yeah.." Trip replied, trailing off briefly. "I didn't mean ta wake you."

"Mmmmm… you didn't. The lack of you did."

"Sorry. I uh.. just needed some air," he said, and brought his hand up to rest on her arm.

She drew in a deep breath, and she lifted her head up, trailing her hands across his shoulders as she moved to his side to look up at him. "Tell me about it, Trip."

Hesitantly, he glanced at her. Hoshi was certainly more awake now, and he knew how hard it was to get her off of the subject. With a sigh, he looked back out the window over the various other tall buildings of the city. "It ain't much to tell, it was a dream."

"You know what the doctor said… it's good for you to talk about it. If you don't, you're going to keep having these dreams."

"D'you think I _like_ this?" he asked, looking at her sharply, then his face softened. "I'm sorry.. just tonight, I don't wanna go into it."

Hoshi bit her lip, and she reached up to brush his blond hair back, making it stuck up a little at odd angles. "I know. But I don't like it when this happens either. What will you do if you get a position on another ship, just not sleep?"

"If I get on another ship…"

"You're not a bad luck charm. It was a long time ago."

"It was seven years, Hosh… that ain't that long of a time."

"Are you still going to be saying that when it's been seventeen years?"

He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. "So you're just goina tell me to let it go, like everyone else."

"No, Trip… Don't act like that. They don't see you like this. Sometimes I think that they believe you're faking it, and I know you're not. But you can't let the guilt eat at you forever."

"I'm the only one that survived.. It ain't that easy, to say just don't be guilty."

Slowly she reached up to place her hand on the side of his face, and she turned his head to face her. "You did survive, you're here, with me. Don't forget that either."

Trip shook his head. "I don't forget it. Every time I close my eyes, I see their faces."


	2. Chapter 2

Here's the next two characters. I evidently decided that I'm intruducing all of the pieces onto the chessboard before I start moving them around. And I also decided to use some weird chess metaphor. Um, I don't know who is coming next though. Pfft, I don't even know what I'm doing with this, so we'll see. But just another note that this is different to the mirror episodes themselves, as awesome and hysterical as they are. So this is a mirror-type universe, not THE mirror universe. Darkly. Arr.

* * *

Part 2

The Imperial Star Ship Helos had the distinction of being the only Imperial vessel not in Earth's direct command. Unless local command was overridden by an admiral it remained solely with Captain Malcolm Reed, who knew his priorities very clearly.

Captain Reed had a specially selected crew and his ship was run with the ancient and classic naval discipline left over from the days that the British navy ruled the oceans with their sailing ships. For the tight ship that Malcolm ran, the term 'pirate' had come up more than once.

The ship looked nothing like any other ISS ship, especially the mass of alien technology that covered the hill, but there was more inside, making the Helos capable of warp six. It also had no markings on the hull that it was a human vessel, which gave them an advantage against the human prejudice in the galaxy.

Malcolm's crew lived in fear for the more part. Upon accepting placement among his crew, their Starfleet records were whipped clean, both of blemishes and of existence. Along with command authority, discipline and punishment rested with the Captain, not Starfleet. But once one got over the fear of punishment, crewmen usually found service on the Helos to be a rewarding experience. The crew compliment consisted mostly of humans, but occasionally, Reed accepted a non-human, only if they met his requirements for service. 

The man himself could be intimidating to observe, and he more than made up for his smaller than average height with ferocity. Malcolm had dark hair, nearly black, and an English shaped face with high cheek bones, grey eyes and a scar that cut from his forehead diagonally across his eyebrow and barely missing his eye. He wore it like a trophy, despite that he could have gotten it removed when it happened, but he wanted to prove that he survived the encounter.

He sat in the command chair on the bridge of the Helos, leaning to the side with his elbow on the armrest and his fist in front of his mouth. The viewscreen was filled with stars racing by them at warp five, and Reed's grey eyes were boring a hole in the screen, as if somehow if he stared hard enough, that the object they were pursuing would appear.

"Sir, the specter has dropped out of warp ahead of us," the tactical officer reported from the sensor console. He was a large man who had the title of being the only crewmember to attempt to fight the captain, during which he had found that his size didn't matter against him. Malcolm Reed fought dirty. Since then, Dax Carnahan viewed his captain with respect and not challenge.

Reed kept his eyes on the screen. "Drop us out of warp when we get close, but leave some distance. Bring shields online, but charge the weapons to 50 power—we don't need to make him suspicious."

"Sir." The comm. officer looked up. "There is a message incoming from Earth."

The statement from the orange haired humanoid caused Reed's gaze to be ripped away from the screen. "I'm occupied. Tell them it'll have to wait."

Maliki had found himself under the wrath of the captain several times before, and he flinched at the icy tone. "Sir. It is marked urgent."

Reed scowled and slammed his fist on the armrest. "Then send it to my ready room, and keep the specter in range. If it goes to warp again, then chase it." Then he stood and walked smartly to the adjoining room.

Once the door shut behind him, Reed sat down at the desk, seething at the empty monitor. The room was a place of emotion. A captain, by his standards, was to remain cold and powerful in front of his crew. Anger and discipline was acceptable, but within reason—not to be shown out of control. As he stared at the empty screen, Reed slammed his hand on the desk, yelling several choice expletives, then he drew in a deep breath and he pressed the button for the call to go through to Earth. He had some kind of idea what it might be about.

The image that appeared on the screen was of Admiral Gardner; Reed's direct overseer—no other admiral handled the Helos. Gardner had a shady reputation, and was highly xenophobic, but even his more questionable acts were ignored for unknown reasons. There were theories of money, power, or blackmail, but Gardner rarely had to answer for anything, making him one of the most feared men in Starfleet. Needless to say, Malcolm Reed got along with him very well.

Reed straightened up in his chair, the expression on his face turning icy again. "Admiral."

"You're being recalled to Earth, Reed." Gardner leaned back, folding his arms. "Effective immediately."

A shadow of annoyance flickered across his eyes. "With respect sir, now is not a good time."

Gardner raised both of his eyebrows in interest. "You've found something?"

"A specter, sir. It's.. a sensor shadow, we only pick it up at certain times, but the intervals are too mechanical to be an anomaly."

"And you think it might be something.. important? Like what?"

"A ship. Or any other manmade object. Can you imagine even if this was some sort of probe, and it reached Earth? It could be sending back information to its source without our sensors detecting it at all." Reed folded his arms. "I want to pursue it further, then I will return to Earth."

The Admiral drew in a long breath through his nose, pressing his lips together tightly. "No, Reed, now. This is important. That's an interesting fiction, and you can play with your sensor shadow when this is over."

"_Sir_," he started in an annoyed tone, but then he stopped and looked off to one side, continuing to work his jaw. Reed looked back to the viewscreen, and he narrowed his eyes a little. "Very well, sir."

A native, sinister smile crossed Gardner's face. "Good man. I think you'll enjoy this next assignment, it's right up your alley."

The screen went black again and Reed sat with his hands gripping the arms of the chair to avoid throwing something.

* * *

T'Pol stood after the transmission with her mother ended. She had always found it difficult to communicate with that woman, and though the conscience thought never occurred to her, she was not fond of her either. Her mother rarely considered her daughter's thoughts, or ambitions or desires when she decided upon things.

She had relayed many times that she did not wish to go through with the betrothal that was arranged when she was a child. She found Jaurrel quite undesirable—which her mother also objected to, however T'Pol blamed it on her father's death shortly after she was born and because of it, she deduced, she was unaccustomed to men. It gave her a convenient way to ignore her desire not to be married, at least not at this point in her life.

As she walked to the bathroom adjoined to her quarters, she shed her clothes and left them on the floor behind her. Someone would come to pick them up, she was not terribly concerned by it. A bath was just what she needed. Even without speaking to Jaurrel, she felt the need to wash the very thought of him off of her skin.

Logically, Jaurrel was a good choice of a husband, but she could not stand him. T'Pol was often viewed as radical for actions such as her preference not to marry. She had been offered several high positions in the High Command because she had always shown the promise of greatness, but she had turned them down. Instead, she purchased her own ship, crew and servants, and she went where she pleased. 

Sighing, she leaned back against the edge of the bathtub. Evidently, getting away from her planet was not enough to get away from her people. She found them hypocritical and prone to overreaction, which was ironic considering their devotion to logic and the purging of emotions. Somehow T'Pol imagined that Surak's teachings had been badly misinterpreted. But she had always had trouble following them. As a child, she had cried, which abhorred her mother, and she still struggled at times to keep her emotions suppressed. However, she partially blamed it on her exposure to the cultures of the rest of the universe.

For a long time, she laid in the warm water of the bath and let the thoughts of Jaurrel drift away. Perhaps she would find a better way to avoid their marriage this time. But she could not do that while laying in the bath all day, and with some reluctance she got out and dried off.

When she walked back into the main room with the towel wrapped around herself, the discarded clothes had been picked up and her maidservant was waiting with clean ones. Without a word, she began to help T'Pol get dressed again.

"Selar, I want you to inform the bridge that we will be returning to Vulcan. There is no rush," T'Pol said in a stately voice as she adjusted her robes.

"Very well," Selar replied, bowing her head. "Is there anything else?"

T'Pol waved her off with her hand, and she turned to look at one of the windows out into space from her quarters. With a bow, Selar picked up the robes and began to take them out, but before she reached the door, T'Pol turned to her. "Wait."

Quickly, Selar turned to face her again, with her pointed eyebrows raised in curiosity. "Yes, milady?"

"Selar… you are not married, but what is your experience with love?"

"Love? I've..never experienced love." She paused briefly, watching her lady's emotionless face. "Is this about Jaurrel?"

T'Pol raised an eyebrow at her. "Do you have an opinion on him?"

"I do not like him, milady."

She sighed. "Neither do I. Even if we were married, I would not love him. I could not learn to love him."

"Milady, then… you should not marry him."

"Vulcans do not marry for love, Selar. That is a human trait."

"Then perhaps our people must learn from the humans."

T'Pol turned away again and waved her hand again for Selar to leave. "Inform the bridge."

"Yes, milady," Selar said quickly, and left the room.

As soon as the door was closed, T'Pol glided over to the window to watch the stars. Somehow she had always expected to marry for love. Her mother would also be abhorred to hear that, but it was not her concern. T'Pol would make her own choices, despite what her people thought. 


	3. Chapter 3

This is the last part of sort of character introductions, and the second half features my OC Telemus...who will provide an interesting element I think/hope as the story progresses. The next chapter will be the action and plot picking up, so we'll see how that goes. Reviews are always appreciated, especially if you like it and/or want me to continue!

* * *

Part 3

"I almost didn't think you'd actually show up."

Trip smiled briefly as he walked over to her. Erika Hernandez looked very inch a captain in her uniform, while he simply looked like an average citizen of San Francisco in blue jeans and a sweatshirt. "But I did come," he replied, standing facing her.

Her smile widened and before either of them could say anything else, Erika drew him in for a friendly hug. "I'm glad you did. It's been too long, Trip."

It didn't at all surprise him, and in fact he hugged her back. But in truth, he almost didn't come, mostly because she could have picked a better location to meet. It certainly wasn't that he didn't want to see Erika, she was a good friend. They even had the chance to become more than just friends once, but Trip didn't like the idea of getting involved with his best friend's former girl, no matter what the circumstances. Besides, now he had Hoshi.

"Guess it has been. But we've both been busy… not that that's any kinda excuse," Trip said with a small smile.

"Well, that's why we've got the time now." Erika pulled back from the embrace and motioned to a bench on the grass just off of the nearby footpath. "Come sit down."

He followed her, with a small hitch in his step, and when they sat down, he stretched his left leg out to get comfortable for awhile, then he looked up in front of them. There was a large stone column with a bronze plaque on its four sides, and with both the Starfleet insignia as well as the sculpture of a ship sitting on top, that resembled the mission patch on Erika's uniform, only this ship was different—a little older. There were some fresh cut flowers spread around the bottom of the column, as well as all kinds of photographs. Beyond it, the grass and handful of trees stretched out for a little way until it dropped off onto the bay below.

Erika sighed, looking around; over at the Golden Gate to the left, the series of ancient white buildings that had been preserved behind them and in the distance to their right was the contrast of the Starfleet Academy. "I thought that the Presidio would be a quiet place to talk this time of day," she commented.

"Yeah, it's nice. Quieter than I remember it when we was cadets," Trip replied, smiling as he looked down at his feet. "How's your ship comin' along? She oughta be almost done by now, right?"

"Two months." Erika smiled too. "I've been counting down the days… In fact, they put in my chair recently. I got to try it out yesterday."

"How'd it feel, Cap'm Hernandez?"

She laughed softly. "Perfect fit. It felt good. I'm anxious to get going."

"Betch'your crew is too," he said, looking over at her.

"I know for a fact they are." She smiled at the thought, and remained silent for a few moments. Eventually her smile started to fade with what she had to say next. "They're a good crew, I can tell already, but I'm still missing something. You know, Enterprise could really use a chief engineer who has been in space already."

Trip slowly looked away, avoiding the sight of the column. "The one you got's good enough. One ship don't need two chief engineers."

"You've been cleared for space for almost a year now, Trip. I know that working in the shipyards is a stable thing, but you've got experience almost none of us have, and I could really us it."

He shook his head. "I ain't ready, they shouldn't 'a cleared me for that."

Another silence fell between them. Erika looked back over the column with a sigh. She had the inscription nearly memorized, but she still read it again. "You know," she said, breaking the silence. "I used to come out here a lot after they put this up. Once a week, I'd come out here and sit for an hour or two. I thought that…somehow, it would help me feel closer to him."

Trip kept his gaze down again, concentrating more on the grass that surrounded the bench. "Did it?"

"I don't really know. Sometimes I like to think it did." She looked at him. "A lot of people were hurt when we lost the Morpheus. That ship was named for the dream that it was, and a lot of people lost their dreams. I did. But I'm the Captain of our fastest ship. I know that has to be a _dream_ for an engineer. If someone set you off about the plans for the warp five engine, then you'd go on and on about it for hours, remember?"

He smiled weakly, but it faded. "I ain't ready."

"Trip, I'd really like you on my ship. I can talk to Admiral Forrest about making it an official order… neither of us would like that, Commander Tucker."

Briefly, he closed his eyes at the acknowledgement of rank. Erika was a strong willed woman, she knew what she wanted, and she always knew how to get it, which made it difficult to fight her. "Erika, look. This ain't a case of want or not want. I _can't_ do it. I'm still doin' what I wanna do—I'm happy here."

Her face softened a little, and she reached over to put her hand on his arm. "I've known you for a long time. You don't seem very happy to me. Just think about it, okay? You've got a month to decide."

Trip looked up at her as her hand left his arm and she stood up, and he continued to watch as she stepped forward the face the column. He didn't need to read it either. In fact, he hadn't been here since they put it up, and then only reluctantly had he appeared at the dedication ceremony. He knew the names of the crew of the Morpheus because he knew them all personally—because he had been one of them. Now he was the only one left.

Turning to face him, Erika smiled a little. "I'll see you later, okay Trip?"

He face her a small nod in response. She turned to face the column one more time and her fingers slowly drifted over one of the names before she left. Lieutenant Jonathan Archer.

Erika lost her fiancé and Trip lost his best friend. He was still grieving and she wasn't, that was what she was trying to prove. But she hadn't been there…if she had been, then he knew that she would have understood.

* * *

The ship looked rather small from the outside, but the passenger capacity was only ten, so it was to be expected. Telemus preferred it that way; to travel anonymously rather than in one of the large and elite passenger cruises. It suited his purposes well. Picking up his small back of possessions, he started to follow the rest of the new passengers aboard.

For the small passenger capacity, the ship also had a small crew of only four—Captain, first officer, pilot and engineer. Earlier on the space station, Telemus had made his travel arrangements with the first officer, and he had only met the captain once after his passage and payment to the ship were secured. It was the first officer again who met him to lead him to his new quarters. The service he was getting from them clearly suggested that he was a valued passenger, and he should be with the amount of money he paid. But he usually appreciated less attention.

"Lord Telemus," the first officer said with a pleasant smile, and he motioned to his bag with one hand. "Do you want me to carry that for you?"

Telemus paused to lean on his cane and shake the bag briefly, rattling the contents. "It is not heavy."

The first officer, a humanoid named Kregor, shrugged a little. "I just thought I'd offer. Come with me, I'll show you to your quarters."

Giving him a small nod, Telemus followed silently, except for the accented thud of his cane on the metal floor. The ship's hallways were nearly painfully narrow, so that two people could not pass each other. He imagined it could be a hazard in an emergency situation.

Kregor clanked back at him. "I do have to say though, that for someone of your status and the length you've been away, that bad seems pretty small."

Telemus raised a pointed eyebrow. "I require little."

"That's better than some people that practically fill our entire cargo bay." He pressed a button and a door slid open to small living quarters. "Here you go."

"Thank you," he replied quietly, and looked inside first before he entered.

There was a single bed, a small desk, and a lavatory adjoining it. He admitted to seeing smaller rooms, but it had been some time since he had stayed in one. Dropping his bag on the bed, Telemus slowly walked around the room to examine everything—every corner, bulkhead and rivet.

Kregor stood in the doorway silently and folded his arms as he watched. "Is everything alright? We clean the rooms after every trip, but I know Vulcans have a stronger sense of smell than us. We weren't entirely expecting you."

Telemus looked back to him calmly. "It is sufficient."

"We don't really get a lot of Vulcans… I have to ask, are you sure you wouldn't you want to go back to your planet? I've never known your people to stay away from home this much."

"My presence is not required there."

Slowly, Kregor looked him over again with a critical gaze that was difficult to hide. He sensed something quite different about their highest paying passenger, and Kregor knew better than not to keep an eye on him. "We'll be taking off soon. The captain requires the engine room, cargo bay and cockpit to be off limits. But if you need anything, one of us will be around."

He waited until Telemus gave him a nod of acknowledgement before he left.

Once the door was shut, Telemus sat down on the bed and leaned his cane against the wall. He knew he would be watched now. Kregor reminded him strongly of one of his former officers—a good one, one that he respected. But Kregor had every reason to be suspicious of him, which made him a good first officer.

A Vulcan far from home was unusual, which was why he avoided public and high traffic means of travel, while hoping to avoid these kinds of questions. The truth was, that Lord Telemus was much farther from home than Kregor imagined.


	4. Chapter 4

This is one of those sections with the um scifi conventions from other places as well? I might have mentioned that in the beginning, I might not have. I like many ideas that come from different fandoms, but I'll only be taking pieces or ideas, because I think that it would all exist together. That may not make sense. This section is a little rushed, but it's ok. The Unas and Cha'ka come from Stargate... SG-1. Which I don't even watch. But Cha'ka happened to be on a couple of times (I think he's only in like two episodes anyway) before Enterprise, so I saw him and liked him a lot. And I stole him. I changed him a little too, so he's not exactly like he is on the show. That's all insignificant. The next section will be back on Earth. (with ARRRRRRR Pirate Malcolm)

* * *

Part 4

Zane's estate, while much bigger than Lek's residence, showed little difference in the housing of slaves. Jon remained quiet along the journey to his new home, and the guards even found he was easier to handle while unloading him from the ship. It was in many parts due to the restraining collar. But as they came closer to the cages that served as slave quarters, he pulled sharply at the chains that were attached to the binders on his wrists, making the guards stop when they couldn't pull him forward anymore.

Jon yanked at the chains hard, planting his feet, and refusing to move. The first guard pulled back on the chain impatiently, but the second gave an exasperated sigh. "You're wasting your time," he said, and reached for the control button on his wristband for the collar.

The only indication that it was working, was an electrical buzzing noise, and Jon dropped to his knees. He whole body shook for a moment in pain and he gritted his teeth, but then it let up, and he leaned forward to catch his breath.

The first guard tugged on the chain again. "Get up. Unless you want another one," he said roughly.

Jon shakily tried to get to his feet, not wanting to endure the wrath of the collar again. With a grin, the first guard pulled sharply on the chain to cause Jon to stumble forward off balance, then he laughed at his self-made amusement. As he quickly regained his balance and stood solidly on both feet, Jon narrowed his eyes at the guard, uttering a low animalistic growl.

Shaking his head, the second guard started walking again. "Don't mess with him like that, he's liable to pull your arms off."

"He won't. These players aren't as tough as they look in the arena."

"If that's what you want to believe." The second guard pulled one of the cage doors open and nodded to Jon. "Get in."

Jon swallowed hard, looking into the darkness of the cell. The doors were solid with a single square window, and there was another window in the back, but it didn't provide much light. As he looked down the row of doors, he could see other creatures looking out at him—some were timid and looked away when they saw him glance their away, but others glared back threateningly.

The first guard sighed and yanked hard on the chain. "Come on, we don't got all day."

Reluctantly, Jon started to walk inside, and as he passed the guards, they quickly unlocked the binders and pushed him inside, then they slammed the door shut.

* * *

It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Jon stood perfectly still. Even without seeing, he could smell another creature. It had a distinctive scent, but he couldn't place what it was. It smelled of sweat and work, and fire smoke. There was a shuffling sound in the corner, and Jon barely made out movement as it stood up.

It growled softly. Jon swallowed hard and back against the door with his palms pressed to the cold metal. Slowly, the creature came out of the corner, crouched down low cautiously. It had leathery skin that was green and brown, and an oblong head. Jon had seen the species before. They were dangerous and primitive—an Unas.

The Unas narrowed his yellow eyes and sniffed at him, growling a set of foreign words. Jon chewed on his lip. Even if he could try to speak to the Unas and tell him that he meant no harm, it was doubtful that the Unas would understand him. Jon certainly didn't understand him.

As the Unas growled again, Jon slowly brought his hands out and showed them with his palms forward. Tilting his head to the side, the Unas creased his brow and hissed softly, as he cautiously stepped forward. Slowly, he held out his four fingered hands, and he turned his palms forward to face Jon.

Jon started to ease a little and his body became less tense. He didn't lower his guard all the way though. He never did—he knew better. But even the Unas stood up a little straighter, getting out of his defensive stance. They were both unarmed, and peaceful. Jon found that the gesture was universal, even for the primitive Unas.

With some caution, the Unas closed his hand in a fist, and he brought it to his chest. "Cha'ka…" he said in a low growl.

Jon lowered his hands and creased his brow a little in confusion, but then he began to mimic the action, and he brought his fist to his chest.

The Unas showed his teeth at him and turned his head sharply to the side. The growl that he gave wasn't sharp and threatening, but almost like a purr. It didn't scare Jon. Neither did the teeth. "Cha'ka.." he said again.

The only thought that occurred to him was that it must be his name. They had proven that they were not hostile, now the Unas was telling his name, or so he thought. Cha'ka.

The Unas narrowed his eyes again and thumped his chest. "Unas," he said. "Te Cha'ka." Then he pointed at Jon with a clawed finger. "Ta 'Uman?"

It was a little difficult to process, but he could tell that the Unas—Cha'ka—was making an effort to communicate. Jon thumped his fist on his chest in response, to answer the question that he thought was asking if he was human.

Cha'ka barred his teeth again in a pleased manner. "Ta?" he growled again.

Jon creased his brow. He brought a hand up to his throat, where the collar was, and then to his mouth, shaking his head. He wasn't even sure if the motions made sense to.. Cha'ka.

But the Unas tilted his head to the side again, looking Jon over closely. The message was clear enough. Cha'ka lowered himself to sit down on the metal floor, and he raised his hand up and motioned downwards. "Cha."

He cautiously moved away from the door to sit down too. They had established that they were not hostile already, and Jon may not trust Cha'ka, but they were at least starting to communicate. He would have never imagined it from an Unas, especially after facing a few in the tournament arena.

* * *

Jon could not remember being this cold for a long time. The sound of his boots on the ground sounded more like he was running on gravel than snow. But he was thankful that he had the boots this time. His hands were not as fortunate, and his finger on the trigger of the energy rifle felt like ice. He wasn't sure that he could fire the weapon if he needed to, or if he tried to use his hands to fight, that they might shatter from the cold.

The top of the snow was flat, and as he ran down a snow-dune, he slipped and skid down the rest of the way on his back. The mediocre armor that Zane had him fitted with made grooves in the snow on the way down. As soon as he stopped sliding, Jon scrambled back to his feet and started running. His chest heaved, and every time he breathed, his breath made a small cloud in the cold. Jon swore that the inside of his lungs were also coated with ice.

A large chimney of snow-covered rock was in front of him and two his left. Jon jumped down another small hill and skid to a stop with his boots, taking a moment to catch his breath with his back pressed up against the rock. He held the energy rifle to his chest, and he looked both up and down the snow slope, listening to see if he could hear anyone coming.

There were a few snowflakes that lazily danced down from sky, landing on his hair and melting quickly on his skin, to make up for the ones that he missed while running. A sharp wind rippled past him, raising goosebumps under the layer of sweat on his skin. Jon shivered. But other than the wind and his heartbeat, it was silent.

Cautiously, he took step out from the shelter of the stone. Then when he determined that it was safe, he took another. Suddenly, he heard movement behind him, and someone stepping on gravel snow. Jon turned, trying to raise his weapon in time, but his opponent was ready first and swung the butt of his gun to hit Jon as he was turning.

The blow made him spin once before he dropped onto the snow on his stomach. Behind him, the creature gave a mechanical laugh as it approached. Jon flipped around by digging his elbow into the snow, and he raised his rifle, but the creature kicked his arm aside, preparing to slam the butt of his own gun down again for an up-close kill. They were worth more points.

Jon immediately rolled to the side and the butt of the falling rifle bit into the snow, causing some of the top layer to spray across on him. He dug his boots into the snow to gain traction as he scrambled to his feet, but his opponent was ready for him and slammed him against the rock. His hands had maintained their grip on the rifle, and he brought it up to hit the creature's chin, knocking him backwards a step.

It was enough of an opening. Jon twisted his grip on the energy rifle to fire at the creature, hitting its abdomen with a blue bolt of light. The blow knocked the creature back against a bank of snow and he didn't get up again.

Jon's eyes darted around, and he started to run down the slope again.

* * *

"I concede that he is impressive, Zane." Jaurrel leaned back in his padded chair and folded his hands. "For a human."

"Humans rarely advanced this far, and especially not slaves," Zane commented. "Occasionally one of the rich ones with special enhancements will, or perhaps one of the psychotic criminals that they decide to sentence here."

"The criminals are used to killing, it is logical that they would do well."

"Of course…" Zane trailed off. He pressed a button on the arm of his chair that changed the view on the large screen before them. The arena terrain was mountainous, but it was smaller than other outdoor arenas, which confined the players to the mountains and ice caves. There were many open areas as well as hiding places and uneven terrain, which made it an exciting and unpredictable arena. Just a few months ago, two players had killed themselves in a snow avalanche. No one really mourned their loss, the mistake that they made proved that they were stupid as well as undesirable.

Zane usually preferred to observe games that he had investments in from his ship in orbit. A direct feed was sent to his viewing room, where he watched either with guests or by himself. For now, it was an opportunity to show off his newest acquisition to Jaurrel, who he found to be one of the few Vulcans with any interests in the tournament.

As they continued to watch, Jaurrel sighed softly. "I do not believe that your human is adapted to the cold. He may not survive to the end of the match."

"He was expensive, he had better survive," Zane said in a low tone as he folded his arms. He found it at times difficult to communicate effectively with Jaurrel. Most Vulcans annoyed him with their lack of emotions. Though Jaurrel wasn't quite as bad as the others. He imagined that was why Jaurrel liked the games.

"The expense of a player does not always determine their value."

"Is that in the teachings of Surak?" Zane asked, glancing at him briefly.

Jaurrel simply raised an eyebrow. "No. It is experience and logic."

"Somehow I don't think Surak would approve of these games."

"That is likely."

Zane sighed and stretched in his chair. "Has there been any news about T'Pol yet? Or is she still avoiding you?"

"I do not see how my personal life has any relevance to the current situation," Jaurrel replied calmly.

"I'll take that to mean no. Maybe you should give her a human, it might loosen her up."

Slowly, Jaurrel looked over to Zane. He found that as a Gerotian, Zane was nearly as excitable as an Andorian. How they came to appreciate each other's company, he still wasn't sure. "I do not believe it would have any effect."

"It might, you take my word for it… Look! See that?" Zane nearly sprung out of his chair as he pointed at the screen. "I told you he was good. He's going to win."

Jaurrel's attention turned back to the viewscreen. "Perhaps you are right.." he replied quietly.

* * *

As the guards brought Jon back to the cage, they found that they didn't have to use the collar at all after the game was over. Injured and exhausted, he was much easier to handle. They wished that all of the slaves that they had to deal with would be the same way all the time. It would make life easier for everyone.

The first guard held onto Jon's arm as the other one opened up the door. They pushed him in without trouble—he didn't even balk at the darkness of the cage like he had before. Jon was too tired. At least the cage would be a good place to sleep.

He stumbled and fell as they pushed him inside and locked the door, and he could hear their amused laughter as they walked away. Jon didn't get up from where he fell, resting his warm forehead on the cold metal. It felt good.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness faster as he knew what to look for, and he could see Cha'ka moving out of the corner towards him cautiously. His cellmate sniffed the air and growled softly, crouching down next to Jon.

"Ka-nay."

There were words that Cha'ka said that came up over and over, and Jon was learning their meanings. They were teaching each other—they had to, but most of the teaching was accomplished with their hands. Sometimes Cha'ka translated that way. It helped most of the time. But Jon didn't know what 'ka-nay' meant. There was no translation.

Cha'ka tilted his head to the side a little and he reached out to touch Jon's shoulder. "Ka-nay. 'Uman."

With a small wince, he tried to sit up to face him, but Cha'ka's hold on his shoulder tightened to hold him down and keep him from moving. "Ka!" he hissed quickly.

Jon knew what 'ka' meant. It was 'no'. Not moving seemed like a good idea to him too. Carefully, he lifted a hand up, like lifting a cup to his lips.

While they were in the cages and not working, the guards brought food and water. When Jon had been gone for two days, Cha'ka had saved the second share for him, not knowing when he would come back. He reached for the cup of water and handed it to him, watching him drink with shaky hands.

He drank half of the water in the cup, then set it aside, laying his head back down.

Cha'ka edged closer. "Ka-nay?" he said in a tone of inquiry.

Jon looked up at him again and lifted his hand again, to point to his mouth, then he shook his head as he pointed to it. Cha'ka would know the meaning well enough—that Jon didn't understand.

Narrowing his eyes, Cha'ka pointed to Jon. "Ka-nay." He interwove his fingers, then he pulled them apart and held up one hand. "Unas." Then the other hand. "'Uman." Then he wove them together again.

All that he could get from it, was Unas and human were together. But nothing else.

Cha'ka reached forward to try to pull Jon's shirt up and see where he was hurt. The smell of blood was strong enough to tell. But Jon quickly reached down to stop him.

Immediately, the Unas pulled back and he growled softly. "Cha," he said, and pointed at a healing gash on his arm. The guards were rougher with the Unas that Zane owned than with the other slaves, and one of them cut Cha'ka. Jon cleaned the wound a few days before he left for the tournament. The message was clear enough that Cha'ka was repaying it.

While he wasn't entirely comfortable with it, Jon nodded, and let Cha'ka see to his wounds. Armor usually had little effect for protection. His chest was battered and his arms and legs were cut and bruised. The gash on his forehead from getting hit by the rifle butt was surrounded by blue and purple swollen skin. It throbbed too. He knew it would leave a scar and add to the ones he had already.

Jon closed his eyes and tried to ignore Cha'ka's poking and prodding as he tried to clean some of the wounds. He was beginning to trust him. He had a strong feeling that Cha'ka was trusting him too. Just as he started to drift off to sleep, the thought occurred to him that 'ka-nay' meant friend. It was Cha'ka's name for him.


	5. Chapter 5

This part didn't quite end where I would have liked it to, but that's ok because it sort of ended naturally. And it's better than the big ol' cliffhanger I had in store, so you can all look forward to that um.. in chapter 7, and it won't be as cliffhangery. Updates may be fewer now that my classes are starting to explode a little. It's that time in the semester. But I'm reducing my workload, and am able to write during a class (yeah, I'm that bad), so I'll try to keep updates.. coming at least.

* * *

Part 5

As soon as the Helos was secured in spacedock, Malcolm took the closest shuttle down to the surface. He had been gone for so long that Earth felt foreign. In fact, as he walked into Starfleet headquarters, the ground felt strange under his feet. It wasn't as hard and unforgiving as the metal deckplating of Helos, but he found that he mostly missed the faint hum of the warp engine under his feet. It would take awhile to gain his land-legs back.

Headquarters hadn't changed since he was last here. It was filled with blue uniforms. Malcolm stood out in his black one. It gathered him not only many looks his way, but a wide birth. Even if they didn't know precisely who he was, there were many rumors about the Helos, and Malcolm looked imposing.

For the most part, Malcolm ignored the blue uniforms. He was confident that his crew were more proficient than anyone in Starfleet. They were certainly more experienced. But then Starfleet nearly slowed to a half after the incident with the Morpheus, and in eight years, the Helos was the only long distance ship that had been built on Earth. Most of the technology on Malcolm's ship was from an alien source anyway. It took eight years to get moving and build Enterprise, since Helos was not a ship in the public light.

Malcolm headed down an empty hallway, leaving the blue uniforms behind. He took two more turns before the hallway was completely shut off from the sounds of the main hall. Most of the doors were closed, and further down the hall there was a single MACO standing guard. Gardner's office was impossible to miss.

He stopped in front of the guard. "The Admiral is expecting me."

The guard looked him over briefly, then he touched the commlink on his ear. "Sir, Captain Reed requests to see you."

Sighing, Malcolm folded his arms as he waited. Gardner was paranoid, and every time he saw him, it seemed worse. Finally the guard looked back to him and nodded before opening the door. Malcolm stepped inside.

The office was bland. Other than a desk, two chairs, a computer and a few datapads, it was empty. But Malcolm wouldn't be surprised if the conversation was being recorded with hidden equipment somewhere. Sometimes he amused himself by trying to locate it—Gardner was too smart to use something as mundane as an airvent.

Malcolm walked further inside and stood rigid at attention in front of Gardner's desk. "Admiral."

It was only after a few moments that Gardner looked up to acknowledge his presence—everything happened on Gardner's terms, not Reed's. "You made good time, Reed."

"Aye, sir. You said it was urgent."

Gardner nodded. "It is. Sit down."

"I'd rather stand. What do you need us to do?"

"You, Reed." Gardner leaned back in his chair and picked up a datapad. "Enterprise will be ready to launch in a month and a half. I want to tighten security."

Malcolm's shoulders dropped half an inch and he tightened his hands into fists behind his back. "You want me to run a security detail?" he asked in a low voice. "What about all of your MACOs, they're trained for this."

"I trust you, Reed."

He raised an eyebrow at the statement, but he certainly didn't believe it. Gardner looked over the datapad and continued. "We've received threatening intelligence from outside sources, and I want you to make sure nothing goes wrong."

"Aye, sir," Malcolm said through clenched teeth.

"You're angry, I know, but you've got the experience. I'll forward all relative intelligence to you," Gardner said evenly. "You should talk to Captain Hernandez and make her aware of the situation. Oh, and Tucker, he's heading up the last of the construction from the ground. If you need any resources, let me know."

Almost immediately, Gardner turned back to his computer as if Reed wasn't even there.

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. "What of my crew, sir?"

"You can use them. Just keep them out of trouble." Gardner looked up at him. "You're dismissed, Reed."

"Aye, sir," he replied and turned on his heel to leave.

As he was at the door, Gardner glanced back once more. "I'll have something else for you when this is over."

Reed paused briefly, but he didn't stop to look back. He walked past the guard and quickly down the hall. Gardner had better get him something good in exchange for reducing him and his crew to security guards. There would be no chance of recovering the specter once they got back out now.

* * *

When Hoshi first received the message from Trip to meet him in an hour if she could, she was immediately nervous that something had happened. It wouldn't be the first time. She liked him a lot. In fact, she loved him, she was sure of it. But there were challenges.

It was late afternoon and her classes were finished for the day, so she headed quickly to the hanger where Trip worked outside of Headquarters. Even though the message wasn't urgent, she was still worried, and as she came closer, to see Trip sitting outside made her feel much better.

Trip stood up when he saw her and a large smile spread over his face as he walked over to her, pulling her into his arms to greet her. She couldn't help smiling, but she pulled back and hit his shoulder gently.

"You scared me! What do you want?"

He smiled sheepishly, looking down at his feet and glancing up at her in small intervals, appearing more like a little boy. "Sorry."

"I thought something had happened, at least tell me next time," she said in protest.

"Good to see you too, babe," he said, kissing her cheek.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You need to not be so sweet, it's impossible to stay mad at you."

"That ain't my fault. You're seemin' to stay in character pretty good right now." He grinned again. "Malcolm's back."

"He's back? It's been two years at least, hasn't it?"

"Almost three." Trip reached down for her hand and started to lead her inside.

Smiling again, she looked up at him as she walked. "So you're excited because your frat brother is back."

Trip gave her a strange and confused look, scrunching up his face a little.

"What?" Hoshi questioned. "You two act like it."

"Uh-huh."

"You do! Just remember if you go out somewhere with him, you better not be waking me up at three in the morning. I need to sleep, I do have work in the morning."

He shook his head a little. "That only happened once…"

"Twice."

"Twice. Mal's been gone for almost three years. I've been good."

She smiled a little and kissed his cheek. "Yes you have. I'm proud of you."

* * *

Trip hadn't been able to see Malcolm yet, he had been waiting for Hoshi, and once she was there he lead her inside by her hand, much to her amusement. She knew him to be excitable, but she hadn't seen him like this for awhile, especially as he practically pulled her inside.

The shuttle from Helos was the first thing that she saw, and then the humans. Malcolm specifically stood out like a traffic director as he gave out orders and pointed to show where various crates should be taken after being unloaded from the shuttle. As he caught the movement of two people entering the hanger, he looked up to see them. His serious face was disrupted by a smile and he left his crew to unload by themselves as he walked over to them.

"Trip! Hoshi, good to see you," he said warmly.

She hadn't really expected the action, but she found that it just sort of happened. Hoshi broke away from Trip and smiled happily as she hugged Malcolm tightly, causing him to make an 'oof' sound with the suddenness of the blow. "What's wrong with you, leaving for three years without ever calling home!"

He had to laugh, once he was able to bring air back into his lungs. "Well I apologize, next time I'll be sure to give you full top priority reports directly from my chair on the bridge."

"Good, that would be acceptable."

Shaking his head a little with amusement, Malcolm kissed her cheek. "It's good to know that I was missed."

"Hey, quit tryin' ta come onto my girl," Trip said, folding his arms.

Malcolm smirked at him. "She came onto me, Trip. It's not my fault if she has finer taste."

"Oh yeah sure, you pirate." He shoved Malcolm's shoulder, and Hoshi stepped out of the way to watch with amusement as they both embraced.

Laughing, Malcolm slapped his back lightly. He wouldn't have admitted it to his crew, or his superiors, or anyone else, but he missed Earth. At least this part of Earth. He hadn't smiled this much in three years. Letting go of Trip, he took a step back. "I've got something for you. Souvenir from the outside."

Trip raised both eyebrows. "Yeah? You've gotta tell me what all you saw out there too."

"I'm sure I'll have the chance." He started to walk towards the shuttle.

Hoshi slid her arm behind Trip's back, latching securely to the side of his uniform. She was glad that Malcolm was back, she missed him a lot, and she envied him a little—that he got to see new places and people, and explore outside of their own territory of space. However, she took a small comfort that her man would never be in that position.

Malcolm came back again, carrying a board; narrow and long, with both ends turned up just a bit. It was thin, and evidently lightweight, but there was a foreign object attached to the bottom. It had absorption capabilities, similar to shock absorbers. He placed it on the ground with the board facing up.

Creasing his brow, Trip detached from Hoshi and walked all around it as Malcolm stood with his arms folded and a proud look at his acquisition. As Trip crouched down to look at the bottom of the board, the realization came to him, and he looked up quickly. "Is this a hoverboard?"

Malcolm grinned back. "The latest model."

Laughing, Trip got to his feet again. "How'd you get a hoverboard?"

"Black market. They've come into use by the Tournament, so there is plenty of surplus."

Cautiously, Trip brought one foot onto the board, then he stepped up with his other foot to balance his weight on it. Once he was steady, it began to lift off of the ground, and he bent his knees to try to keep steady. "Whoa…"

Malcolm folded his arms again, watching with amusement. "You don't have to worry about falling off. The field created by the generator will hold you down. It is rather sophisticated for what they use it for."

The board leveled off at waist height, and Trip looked down at them. "You ought have one too, Mal, then you'd really be tall."

"Ha. Ha. Go play."

Pressing on the back of the board, it scooted forward quickly. Trip laughed again. It felt like he had slipped on water on the ground, but he didn't fall. He pushed slower, and the board glided forward, then he leaned to the side to make it turn. Hoshi stepped next to Malcolm as she watched Trip flying around the hanger.

"What is this tournament anyway?" she asked quietly.

"It's the galaxy's biggest sport. Sort of like the ancient gladiators. I lost quite a bit of money on it once."

She frowned. "Like gladiators? They fight each other?"

"No holds barred fighting. It's been going on for many years. Nearly every planet that I've come across has an arena or two."

"Who fights in this.. tournament?"

He shrugged. "Different classes; slaves, criminals, soldiers. Occasionally, a rich civilian enters, thinking that all of their expensive enhancements and training will save them."

"That sounds barbaric," she said, looking back at Trip.

"Most of them consider us to be barbaric. Perhaps it is an acquired taste. It hasn't made it to Earth yet, but I'm sure at some point it will. Especially as we officially explore space more."

Hoshi looked at him with a half smile, and she shoved his shoulder. "You're ship is official, what are you talking about?"

"Hardly," he laughed softly. "I'm Gardner's intelligence source. Enterprise is the ship of the people. She'll be our first step. Will you be going with her?"

On the other side of the hanger, Trip stopped the board suddenly to the side and he nearly fell, or appeared so, but his feet remained solidly on the board, and he laughed again. Hoshi wrapped her arms around herself. "No. Erika talked to me about it, but I'm not going."

Malcolm watched too, but not fully paying attention. "He still won't go up?"

She shook her head. "They think Trip is the first documented case of spacephobia."

"Maybe they can name it after him. He needs to get on a ship, then he'll get over it."

"He'll barely go to Enterprise in spacedock if they order him. Getting him up there is harder than you think."

Malcolm made a thoughtful noise and an amused smile almost played on his face, but it didn't break through entirely. "Oh. I almost forgot." Turning to face her, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small metal box, handing it over to her. "Another gift from elsewhere in the galaxy."

Laughing, she took the box from him. "You know, you didn't have to do this for me. I didn't ask for any souvenirs."

"No, but I wanted to, and I thought you might like it."

Glancing at Trip again briefly, Hoshi then looked at the box and slowly opened it. She pulled out a black oval stone on a silver chain, and as she was about to thank him, the stone caught the light and became translucent. Inside was the treasure of small alien characters in all colours, shimmering gently in the light. Her eyes widened and she looked back to Malcolm. "This is amazing! Where did you get it?"

He smiled proudly again. "Gerot."

"What does it say?"

"I think you'll have to find that out for yourself. You are the linguist."

Suddenly, she latched onto him again, wrapping her arms around his neck with the stone necklace dangling from her fingers, and she kissed his cheek. "Thank you. I do like it."

As Trip flew over to them, she let go of Malcolm and looked up.

"Hey. How 'm I supposta get offa this thing?"

"Just pick up one foot and it will break the field," Malcolm replied.

"Oh. Didn't try that." Trip picked up one foot and the board floated back to the ground, and he stepped off. "This is great, Mal. I heard 'bout these, but I ain't ever seen one before."

"Good, I'm glad that you like it," he said with a small smile. "Now, I hate to bring up business so soon… but it is rather important. I have a few things to discuss with you about Enterprise."


	6. Chapter 6

This part is ok, I don't feel that it's super good, but I'm my own worst critic, so there you go. However, it's long, and people tend to like long? Also... I used that cliffhanger I threatened in the last chapter for um, this one. So you get a cliffhanger anyway. Sorry. It'll all be ok though, trust me.

* * *

Part 6

The garden behind her mother's house was well kept, and T'Pol always enjoyed being there. It was strange to have a bright garden on a desert planet. T'Les told her once that her father enjoyed it too. She thought sometimes that if she stayed long enough, and mediated hard enough, that she might feel his presence. Her memories of him were limited and unclear. She came here when she was unsettled, and at the moment, she wanted to be anywhere but Vulcan. But she couldn't avoid it any longer.

As she heard soft footsteps behind her, she didn't turn to face him. She knew it was him, the gait sounded masculine. Jaurrel sat down beside her.

"It is agreeable that you have returned, T'Pol, but I find that you are still avoiding me."

"I did not wish to be called home."

"I am aware of this. We have an arrangement."

She turned to look at him. "Then I wish to break the arrangement. Both of us have the capability to do so."

"But I do not wish that." He reached up to touch her cheek with the back of his fingers. T'Pol pulled away from him with a slight look of distaste. "You are already considered to be rebellious among your people. The High Commander sees you as emotional. Do you think breaking off your marriage arrangement would be logical in this sense?"

"We do not have a mutual attraction, Jaurrel," she said calmly.

"Marriage is not about attraction, not for us. It is political. Perhaps you have taken too much to human philosophies."

"That is not true. I do not take well to being your political prize."

"You should. I am powerful." Jaurrel stood up. "I have many contacts in various places. For instance, I know of your mother's allegiance to the Syrrannites."

T'Pol looked up at him sharply. His expression didn't change, but there was some degree of amusement in his eyes.

"It would be unfortunate if the High Command became aware of this."

"It is illogical for you to threaten my mother to gain my hand in marriage."

"Perhaps not, but effective."

She turned away from him to avoid his gaze. Still, she wanted nothing to do with him, and blackmailing her mother wasn't helping his cause.

With a sigh, Jaurrel brushed the side of her face. "Very well. I am leaving Vulcan in a few days, I wish you to accompany me. I will see you before I leave and I expect you to be ready."

She tensed at his touch and pulled away again sharply. "Do not touch me."

"I think you will come to appreciate what I can give you, T'Pol." He said nothing else and turned to leave.

As his footsteps faded, the garden became silent again. T'Pol closed her eyes, feeling as if she needed to scrub her face to get the imprint of his touch off of her skin. To get away from Jaurrel, she would risk being further labeled as a radical. But she believed that Jaurrel would go to the High Command about her mother.

T'Pol stood up and walked into the house. As she reached the door, Selar broke away from her post to follow her—as T'Pol's maidservant, she was never far. "Milady.." she said softly, having to walk quickly to catch up.

T'Pol held up her hand to dismiss her and kept walking, leaving Selar behind.

Her mother's house was not as colourful as the garden, and instead had neutral, desert tones that decorated it lightly. The ground floor was polished stone; T'Pol's shoes clicked quickly as she walked. She found her mother at last in the main room, and she walked over to face her.

"Mother. I must speak with you."

Looking up, T'Les set her tea down and eyed her daughter calmly. "Then speak. What is it?"

"Jaurrel," she said.

T'Les raised an eyebrow at her. "This business of contesting your betrothal is illogical. You are expected to marry."

She sighed. It was the same lecture every time. T'Pol was expected to marry because of her high status. She was too radical. She was too emotional… She knew very well what was expected of her. "Jaurrel threatened to expose you as a Syrrannite."

A silence passed. A particularly heavy silence. T'Les remained neutral in face and body.

"Is it true Mother?" T'Pol asked with both irritation and surprise in her tone.

"You have become emotional again."

"Is it _true_?"

"If you had married him, then this situation would not have presented itself."

T'Pol folded her arms across her chest. "Then you condone his actions?"

"No. But you could have avoided this."

"Is it true, Mother? Are you a Syrrannite?"

"Jaurrel is your betrothed, it is illogical for you to avoid marriage any longer."

"Tell me, Mother."

T'Les was quiet again, and she reached for her cup of tea, sipping it quietly. "Yes."

Briefly, T'Pol narrowed her eyes. "Then I am not the only radical. Jaurrel does not seem to want to marry immediately. He wants me to accompany him off of the planet."

"Then you should."

Slowly, she sat down across from her mother, looking down at the floor with great intent. "I do not trust him. Was this how you married Father?"

"No," T'Les said with some hesitation.

"Then why must I marry Jaurrel when you married of your own volition?"

"Because of your status and what is expected of you." T'Les placed the tea cup back on the tray. "At any rate, your father is dead."

"If I marry who I want, then he will die?" T'Pol paused for a moment, watching her mother with a critical eye. "Did you love Father?"

"He is dead, T'Pol."

"That is irrelevant."

T'Les sighed. "Go with Jaurrel."

Annoyed, she stood up. However radical the High Command might view her, she would not condemn her mother. Without another word, she headed out of the room to find Selar.

Instead of where T'Pol left her, Selar was waiting outside of the main room. She knew her place. Once she saw T'Pol coming, she stepped forward to meet her. "Milady?"

"We are going with Jaurrel. You will need to pack my things and prepare to leave in two days. Inform Mertil; he will accompany us as well."

* * *

Jon's heart was racing. Crouching low to the ground on powerful legs, he shuffled to the side, barefoot in the dirt. His shoulders were squared forward and his hands were positioned defensively in front of his body. He didn't want to do this. Dust was already swirling around them. He could barely see the on-lookers through it, and he couldn't hear them over the pounding in his ears.

Growling, Cha'ka swiped his hand at him. Jon jumped back and shuffled away. He could nearly feel the pounding on the ground as Cha'ka stepped toward him and bared his teeth with a snarl. Jon didn't want to hurt him. Cha'ka was his only…friend. He couldn't hurt him.

"Tok ka-nay!" Cha'ka growled, swiping his hand at him again.

Jon stepped back uneasily. The Unas reached forward and shoved him hard. Jon stumbled, and Cha'ka took advantage of his opponent being off balance. He ran at him, hitting Jon with his shoulder. They hit the ground with a dusty thud.

If he could have, Jon would have cried out in surprise. With the injury to his throat and vocal chords, not talking wasn't a voluntary action. It wasn't as if pain or fear motivated his lack of sound. He tried to make sound, and he could force air through the injured larynx but sound never happened. Or rarely happened. Sometimes, if he forced air through hard enough, there was something, and sometimes if the register was high or low enough, then something was heard.

The surprise of the blow nearly knocked the air out of him, and if he could have cried out, he would have. Instead, the sound manifested as a squeak. Like a domesticated dog, or very young child. He grabbed Cha'ka's shirt to try to gain control over the wrestling match, and avoid being pinned, and at the same time his mouth turned upward and the rest of his laughing occurred in silence.

There was no sinister action in the way that Cha'ka bared his teeth and he growled in short bursts. Unlike Jon, Cha'ka's attempt at laughter was quiet audible. He reached around to try to wrap his arm around the back of Jon's neck and hold him still, but he found his opponent much less willing to remain still.

Cha'ka might be stronger, but Jon could still squirm out of his grasp. To think that he had been afraid of hurting Cha'ka. Fighting was not something that Jon associated with fun. It was just something that he did, something he was trained to do. Cha'ka was a laborer; not a fighter. But he was good. He knew how to use his body weight as an advantage, as he leaned into Jon with his shoulder to keep him down.

Instead, grinning a little in amusement, Jon pulled away from his sharply, dumping Cha'ka sideways on the ground, and he rolled to get away then back to his feet. He scrambled to get up and shuffled quickly in the dirt, pushing through the gathering of slaves to run across the courtyard outside of the cages. He was still grinning, and he looked over his shoulder to see Cha'ka jump to his feet, chasing after him. The Unas was fast, nearly as fast as Jon, but he kept running.

As he came to the gate, he skid in the dirt, using the traction of his bare feet to change direction and continue across the courtyard. Cha'ka ran diagonally, seeing the direction change to his advantage, and with a surge of speed, he grabbed Jon by wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him to the ground. They landed hard, kicking up another cloud of dust.

Immediately, Jon tried to fight him off. His laughing wasn't audible, but his grin was. Cha'ka wrapped an arm around Jon's shoulders to keep him down. He bared his teeth, but his growl was lighter and broken up. The laughter was contagious.

Jon pulled away sharply, but he couldn't shed Cha'ka's grip yet. The Unas was much stronger than Jon was used to in sparring. But he brought his knee up to Cha'ka's chest, to make more space between them, and he hit the crook of Cha'ka's arm, effectively breaking the hold.

This time, Jon grappled for him, taking on the offense. But with the distance between them, because of the forced break, Cha'ka slipped away from the weak grab, easily rolling to his feet.

Before he could get very far, Jon was on his feet and running after him. Cha'ka's stride was longer, so he covered more ground over the courtyard, but his large feet made it difficult to weave in and out of the other slaves, causing him to slow down. Jon chased him. Many of the other slaves jumped out of the way, but a few eyed them with annoyance and refused to move. Cha'ka neared the gate, and Jon sped up, gaining distance on the flat ground outside of the crowd.

The two guards at the gate watched them with a mixture of amusement and distain. The first guard shifted on his feet, sighing dramatically. "That's a waste of energy; the other slaves don't do that."

The second guard shrugged. "They're playing. It's what animals do, isn't it?"

Jon caught up with Cha'ka, and he jumped on his back, pulling him down in front of the guards. The second guard sidestepped out of their way as they rolled in the dirt, both trying to gain the upper hand, but the first one wasn't fast enough, and Cha'ka hit his leg, causing him to stumble backward.

The guard growled angrily and kicked Cha'ka. "What the hell are you doing! Knock it off, watch where you're going!"

The blow wasn't as hard as it could have been, but the action immediately stopped as Cha'ka yelped and broke away from the fight. Jon pushed himself up, looking at the guards with clenched fists and any semblance of his playful grin gone.

Quickly bringing his weapon up, the second guard stepped forward to meet him threateningly. "Don't try anything."

Pepper. Jon had come to call the second guard Pepper… in the little he remembered from the before time, he remembered pepper as hot. The second guard was hot tempered. The first one was rough. Salt was rough. He was Salt. They went together.

Cha'ka got to his feet too, looking between the three of them. For a younger Unas with still underdeveloped facial horns, he was large, and could likely take Salt and Pepper apart—if he knew it. But he was terrified of them. While the master was gone, the guards had the powers of gods. "Keka, ka-nay," Cha'ka said quickly. "Keka."

Jon knew what keka meant; danger. But their play brought his training and skills back to the surface. The courtyard was theirs', the guards couldn't stop them when they'd done nothing wrong.

Pepper saw it first; Salt was preoccupied with the Unas.

"Hey! I told you to stand down!" Pepper said, aiming his rifle at Jon.

Immediately, Jon grabbed the rifle and pulled Pepper forward with it, hitting the angle behind his shoulder blade to make him drop it. Only one hand came loose, leaving his hand on the handle, but he didn't have enough leverage to stop Jon from slamming the weapon back into his stomach, making Pepper double over.

Cha'ka watched with wide eyes. He had seen slaves fight guards before and he knew how it ended. But he knew of the freedom outside the gates. As one, he couldn't take on the guards very well. Now Jon was here fighting them. Had Cha'ka been older, he would have tried to stop Jon. Instead, he ran into distracted Salt with his shoulder to knock him down.

Jon didn't notice right away. Pepper still held onto the rifle, and he swung at him furiously, hitting Jon in the head when he couldn't duck fast enough.

He fell. The ground seemed far away, and by the time he hit something, everything had gone back.

* * *

Trip had been sitting at the computer all morning. Every time they tried to test the engines on Enterprise, they came back to him saying that the matter/antimatter mix wasn't right, or filters weren't calibrated, or some list of problems. If the current engineering crew wasn't able to calibrate the filters on their own, they were in big trouble. Right now, the mixture was giving Trip the most grief. Erika's launch date in a month was looking pretty optimistic and he didn't really want to be the one to tell her that they'd probably be delayed again.

Reaching forward, he turned the monitor off and rubbed his eyes. He was finding it hard to concentrate. Hoshi had gone up to the ship to help install the universal translator database. Erika was pressuring her to come with them now too, which made the pressure on Trip double.

It wasn't so much that he didn't _want_ to go with the ship…but he couldn't make himself do it. And Hoshi deserved the chance. So far, at least, she had declined Erika's offers and insisted that she would stay with Trip, but he knew she wanted to go. On the other hand, Trip was a little glad. He didn't really want to be left here without her.

He nearly fell off of the chair in surprise when the alarm went off. While in spacedock, Enterprise's systems were monitored from the ground as well. Something had gone drastically wrong, but he couldn't tell what it was. But the shuttlebay was nearby. The chair fell over as he got up and raced out the door with an uneven stride. Other crewmen and security officers were running down the hallway, and he didn't hesitate to follow.

The ground shuttlebay was swarming, and even if anyone was saying what was going on, Trip couldn't make out anything audible. He stood in the chaos, trying to find something familiar. It took a long time, or at least felt that way, until he saw Dax Carnahan, Malcolm's first officer.

"Dax! What the hell is goin' on!" he shouted.

Looking up, Dax motioned for him to come closer. "There was an explosion; a bomb went off, in Enterprise's engine room, the whole ship is disabled and spacedock is damaged. We've gotta get up there now."

Trip's feet wouldn't move any further and people pushed passed him. He heard his heart pounding more than anything else Dax might be trying to say to him. Hoshi was up there. She couldn't be in the engine room, but it didn't matter.

Narrowing his eyes a little, Dax walked towards him. "Commander! We need you up there, we need to control the damage," he said urgently.

He felt his chest closing up, and Trip shook his head quickly. Hoshi was up there, but he couldn't go to her. He wanted to, consciously, but he couldn't make his feet move, and he couldn't stop the panic already in motion.

Irritated, Dax clenched his jaw and turned away to run off to his transport. There just wasn't time to stand there and try to reason with the coward to get up to the ship. They would need Tucker afterwards at the most, but they could just any hands now that they could get. Clearly, Tucker wasn't one of them.

Trip could only watch the swarm of Starfleet personnel push past him and listen to his heart pounding.


	7. Chapter 7

I'm a little more confident about this part. I think the first half turned out pretty well, and I've also got a plan for the next chapter. Thanks so much for all of your reviews, and I hope you all continue to enjoy it.

Part 7

The silence of the shuttlepod wasn't distracting enough. Trip sat in the back, staring at the gray floor. His hands were clenched together, but it didn't stop them from shaking. Taking in a deep breath, he pressed his hands together between his knees. His hands stopped shaking, but one leg started.

Malcolm sat across from him, mostly looking out of the porthole window, but he occasionally glanced at Trip. The other man's fear was so obvious that Malcolm could nearly smell it. It disgusted him. But at the same time, Trip was his friend. Malcolm had seen more of the outside space than anyone else, and there was plenty to fear. But fear was only limiting, it would get them nowhere. Malcolm wasn't afraid.

"How's Hoshi?" he asked after a few minutes.

Trip looked up. "She's a little banged up, but.. she's ok. She was just thrown a little when it happened."

"Being in spacedock was likely worse for the ship. Most everyone got some sort of injury, even if they weren't in engineering. It was fortunate there weren't many onboard."

Slowly he nodded. Malcolm wasn't helping much, and Trip shivered a little. "Yeah.."

Malcolm watched him for a few moments in silence. "The ship is safe now though."

"Yeah," Trip said quietly.

"We needed you up there. For damage control."

"I know."

"Avoiding space won't do you any good, Trip."

"Mal.."

"It'll only make it worse if you keep avoiding it."

"How the hell would you know!" Trip snapped suddenly. "You weren't there. Just leave it alone."

Malcolm looked surprised, but then he folded his arms. "I'm trying to help you. We all are. As long as I've known you this has been your dream."

"Just cut it out." Trip rubbed his face.

"What about Hoshi? Do you just expect her to stay on Earth at your side?"

"She already went up. Look what happened."

Malcolm was quiet for a few moments. "Space isn't as bad as you think. Morpheus was an accident. If our space program had stopped with Challenger centuries ago, we certainly wouldn't be here."

"Mal. Knock it off."

With a sigh, Malcolm leaned back and waited in silence as they docked. He was determined to break Trip of his fear, or at least convince him to try. Maybe it would even be for Hoshi's sake. He knew how much she wanted to go. Malcolm cared for her too.

Trip, on the other hand, had gone back to shaking.

* * *

Once the ship docked, it took some internal coxing until Trip climbed out of the pod onto the deckplating and he followed Malcolm out of the bay and into the hall. It wasn't the first time he had, reluctantly, been on Enterprise. But with the few times, he always remembered. Enterprise was bigger than Morpheus. Though… the deck felt the same. Starfleet specs.

He remembered strongly as they walked and he half expected to see his former crewmates. It was like a dream. Something that would be black and white in a movie. Trip's memory wasn't in black and white, but in vivid color, in a hall just like this.

"_Trip!"_

_He stopped and looked back with a wide smile spreading over his face. "Hey Jon, where you headed?"_

_Jonathan Archer walked up beside him. Being on a ship with a crew compliment of 65 had always implied to them that they would still be seeing a lot of each other, especially being in such close proximity. But once they had been in space for a short time, they found that wasn't quite the case._

"_Basketball on the empty shuttle deck. You want to come?" he asked with a large smile._

"_Nah.. I can't, I gotta go on duty soon."_

_Jon shook his head. "We're never off at the same time."_

_Their uniforms hadn't changed any from Trip's vaguely modern memory. Both officers matched, even in rank, the only difference being that Jon's uniform had a gold trim and Trip's had red._

"_Sometimes we do, I just hadda change shifts. Gotta lot of stuff to get done."_

_Jon smiled a little. "Commander Baker works you pretty hard. Unless you volunteer for all these extra shifts."_

_Trip laughed and Jon shoved his shoulder lightly._

"_When I get my own ship, you'll definitely be my chief engineer. I know you've got a good work ethic."_

"_At the rate you're goin'… goina be awhile."_

"_Hey!" Jon pushed him again, but the smile on the man's face made it difficult for Trip to take him seriously. "You got a problem buddy?"_

_Trip stopped walking and turned to face him, folding his arms. He was grinning too. They played this kind of game a lot. "Yeah I do."_

"_You want to take this outside?"_

"_You bet. Let's go."_

"_With or without the EV suits?"_

"_Without. You can hold your breath that long, can'tcha?"_

"_It only takes 30 seconds to kick your ass."_

_Shaking his head, Trip started walking again. "Just 'cause you're the big bad pilot…"_

"_You're jealous."_

"_I ain't jealous." He was quiet for a few steps, turning a little more serious. "I love it out here."_

"_Me too," Jon said in a softer tone._

_Trip looked up at him. "Ya know.. you marry Erika an' they ain't goina let you two be on the same ship."_

"_We thought about that." He shrugged. "I've got it all planned out. If I hadn't proposed to her, then she would have, and you would have never let me live that down."_

"_You got that right."_

"_Jerk. Anyway, we'll get married, then even if we end up on different ships, I bet not long after that, Starfleet will realize relationships on long term missions are inevitable."_

"_You think so?"_

"_Yeah, I do. I bet by the time I make XO somewhere, that Erika and I will be on the same ship."_

_Trip laughed softly. "So that's your big plan, huh?"_

"_It'll happen," Jon said confidently. _

_He was always confident, older Trip thought._

"_I gotta go or I'm goina be late," Trip said._

"_You better hurry. It's a flogging and then you walk the plank if you're late," Jon said and slapped Trip's back lightly. "See you later."_

_Trip waved back. If there was ever a man born to command a ship, it was Archer. Trip would like it, but he was happy in the engine room too. _

As Jon walked off, his image faded away, and he was left in the hallway of Enterprise instead, staring at a crewman halfway down the hall working on a flickering light.

"Trip!"

He turned to the side to see Malcolm looking at him with a pair of creased eyebrows. "Are you awake? What happened? I've been trying to get your attention for the past ten minutes."

Trip blinked, staring back at him blankly. He almost felt drained by the memory, and disoriented, except that he knew they were in space and it was cold. Goosebumps formed on the back of his neck. "Um… I don't know, I just.."

He looked down the hall, pointing with one hand halfheartedly. Before he caught himself, he almost told Malcolm that he just talked to Jon Archer. But Jon wasn't there. He was gone. "Um.."

Malcolm frowned deeper. "What's wrong with you? Come on.. you need to sit down." He reached for Trip's arm, but the engineer pulled away sharply.

"No, Mal, I'm fine," he said quickly. "I mean, I'm not fine. I don't wanna be here, so let's just.. get this over."

Sighing, Malcolm held up his hand. "Fine. Let's go then."

* * *

Engineering was a mess. There were a pair of security guards at the door that checked their IDs before allowing them entry. But with only a day since it happened, the damage still looked fresh. The air even smelled of smoke and debris. While Dax Carnahan had originally told Trip it was a bomb that went off, that was only a guess, and the 'official' designation was some kind of failure.

Trip shivered again. He could hear the alarms of Morpheus echoing in his head, and his leg started to ach. Biting his lip, he looked around a little.

"I um…" he said with a shaky voice. "I don't think this was some kinda.. failure. Wouldn't make damage like this."

Reed watched him, seeing the color drain from his face. But he said nothing about it. "What do you mean by that?"

"What do you think, Mal?" he asked, looking over at him. "It can't be a failure."

"So, you are claiming sabotage."

"It's.. damn likely…"

"You conclude this simply by looking at it?"

Trip drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Why'd you bring me up here? 'Cause I'd know. I'm tellin' ya.. I know."

* * *

Jon woke to a bucket of water tossed at his face. As he immediately tried to pull away, he found his momentum restricted, and he was chained between two poles, hanging from his wrists with his feet flat on the ground. He knew what it meant, and he pulled at the chains sharply, despite that he also knew he wasn't strong enough to break them.

He stopped immediately when Zane stood in front of him. The master's yellow eyes were darkened to nearly a red color. Jon swallowed hard, even wishing for the safety of his cell just to get away from Zane.

Ironically, Jon was bigger than Zane, as well as Salt and Pepper. But he was never allowed to know. As long as Zane appeared to be an overpowering force, then he would remain bigger. Jon didn't think he was strong enough to contest Zane. Size wasn't an issue; it was dominance.

The chains clanked against the pole as Jon pulled back to get away from him. With a scowl, Zane reached out to grab his throat to make him stop. Jon's eyes widened in fear and he struggled to get away.

"Stop, slave," Zane demanded.

Jon stopped. His heart hammered, even all the way up to his neck, allowing Zane to feel his fear.

"You are fortunate that I don't have you killed for this. But you were too expensive and it would be a waste of money."

Jon knew he had done wrong as soon as it had happened, but he couldn't stop it. Fighting was what they trained him to do. He tried to pull back and escape Zane's grasp.

"No, stop!"

Jon stopped again.

Narrowing his eyes, Zane let go and stepped back. "Your.. friend, that _Unas_, he'll be punished too, and the two of you won't be permitted around each other again." Then a dark smile crossed his face. This was really Zane's favorite part, and he looked over at Salt standing beside him. "Give him twenty."

Salt's amusement was unhidden, and he unraveled the fiberwire whip as he walked behind Jon. This was what Jon knew was coming. He already carried the scars of punishment from before. However, he could handle the pain, it had a minimal effect on him.

Like the restraining collar, Salt pressed the activation switch on the handle and a yellow electric charge ran down each of the nine strands to the tips. Jon didn't need to see it as hearing the hum of the charged whip was enough. He tried to anticipate it, and prepare for the first blow, but he never could.

With a snap, the fiberwire strands raked across his back, biting into the skin, and leaving behind a brief yellow trail of electricity that surged across his back and into his blood. Painful. Jon flinched with the first blow, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Twenty would be a lot. Each time it increased until it was unbearable.

Zane watched, with his arms folded and a slight smile on his face. This always made him feel powerful. Though as he watched and no sound was uttered at all, he was disappointed. Zane liked to hear the animals scream, or at least whimper. Then they knew who was really in charge. That was the kind of power that Zane liked.

* * *

By the time Pepper came forward to get Jon down, there was no fight left in him. He was hanging from his wrists and not standing on the ground. As Pepper removed the support, he let Jon drop, and kicked him lightly with his foot. "Get up."

Jon cautiously looked up, and with shaking arms, he tried to push himself up. With a reluctant sigh, Pepper reached down to haul him to his feet and led him away from the punishment area. They passed by Salt who was leading Cha'ka to take his place. Jon looked up at his friend, trying to convey his sorrow that the Unas would be punished too. He couldn't tell if Cha'ka understood, but as they passed by each other, Cha'ka pulled at his chains, trying to get loose from Salt.

"Ka-nay!" he shouted.

Despite his throbbing back that pulled at the fresh wounds with every movement he made, Jon protested against Pepper too. He didn't want Cha'ka to feel alone. When one slave protested, often more joined in because of it. They all had the same plight. But neither Salt or Pepper relinquished their control, and they were dragged apart.

Pepper led Jon away past the courtyard where the rest of the slaves lived, and instead to something much worse. To Jon, it was a black hole, and that was the best way he could think of to describe solitary confinement. It wasn't until Pepper opened the door that he started to panic.

Jon pulled at the chains on his wrists so hard that it nearly came out of Pepper's hands, but the guard turned on him and narrowed his eyes, pulling back sharply. His protest was much more significant than the one when he initially got there. Fighting to get away from the black hole was a matter of life or death.

"Quit it, or I'll shoot your foot," Pepper threatened in a low tone.

Jon shook his head, struggling to get away with a renewed strength. He was terrified, and he refused to go into the black hole. He didn't care about the pain his back caused. He didn't care about Pepper's threats or what Zane might do to him. This was worst of all.

Annoyed, Pepper drew his laser pistol and shot at Jon's foot. The first time he missed, and Jon tried to take the opportunity to escape, but Pepper held on tight and shot at him again.

The laser blast sizzled into the bare flesh of Jon's foot and he hopped back in pain. Pepper pulled hard on the chain, causing him to be off balance enough to go straight into the room. As soon as he was there, Pepper kicked him down to keep him from leaving and he yanked the chains free from his wrists before he slammed the door.

Jon was left in the dark. It was total darkness, not even a light from under the door. He looked around with wide eyes but saw nothing. Zane's black hole was just as effective as the ones that the men that trained him had used. Those men found it was the only way to control Jon.

Inside the void, there was nothing. No light, and no sound. He couldn't even hear himself breathing in panic. Jon edge forward towards the door and pounded on it, but there was no sound through the dampening field.

The black hole was cold, and Jon retreated back away from the door until he touched another wall. He curled up on the ground as tightly as he could. He was alone now.


	8. Chapter 8

This chapter is a little short. Sorry. I actually had the whole thing written but I got distracted by finals and um Iron Man. Finals are gone, unfortunately Tony Stark isn't. But I'm going to still try to update as much as I can. Sometimes summer is even more distracting than school, which is weird. This is also a weird chapter. Sorry again. Next chapter will pick up with Jon again.

Part 8

Telemus was considering taking up permanent residence on board the ship. He wasn't looking to settle down anywhere, and constant moving appealed to him. Captain Daris had been accommodating, and though they a capable engineer, another wouldn't go amiss. Besides, Telemus likely had more years of experience in space than the age of their oldest crewmember.

He considered it as he meditated, kneeling on a rug on the floor. Unlike other Vulcans, Telemus didn't have a candle, or much ornamentation regarding the teachings of Surak to aid in his meditation. He required very little, and he found it was the easiest way to live.

The bag that he brought with him remained packed except for a few simple robes that hung next to the door. Telemus didn't have the appearance of an elite lord, save his cane which gave him a distinguished look. However, the cane was only functional.

Telemus was tall, standing nearly a head above Kregor, and his dark hair was only beginning to grey. His face was experienced. A few people on the ship found him intimidating. So had his former crew, he reflected. Others, like Kregor, respected but weren't intimidated. Telemus imagined that forced retirement had robbed him of some of his former presence. However, this was not his ship, and he didn't presume to assert any sort of command.

Opening his eyes, he sighed softly. Telemus regretted very little in his life, and most of that concerned his daughters. He didn't regret his actions that led him to Daris' ship.

The sharp sound of the door chime broke the rest of his concentration. He looked up at the door. "Come."

Kregor opened the door and stepped inside, looking down at Telemus, a little fearful that he had disturbed the man's meditation. These races were expressive with their emotions, so much that Telemus didn't need any explanation to read them.

"You did not disturb me," Telemus said in a quiet voice. "What is it?"

"Captain Daris sent me to tell you that we skimmed Andorian space and now they want to board us to check us out. She couldn't really refuse them. The Andorian captain is already worked up."

Telemus raised an eyebrow. "I appreciate that you have informed me. How long will they be here?"

"As long as it takes, but.. you're a Vulcan. They won't be pleased to see you. We didn't think they'd want to board us out here."

Telemus sighed again. He certainly felt the annoyance of the decision that was obviously not well thought out, but his face betrayed nothing. "Very well," he said. Carefully he stood up and took hold of his cane. "What does your Captain propose I do?"

"The Captain thinks that you should meet them. They would be a lot angrier if they thought we were hiding you," Kregor said reluctantly.

"Do you not agree with your Captain's decision?" Telemus asked.

"No. We shouldn't have come this route. It gets us there faster, but we're in no hurry."

"Did you inform your Captain of your protest?"

Kregor folded his arms as he regarded the older Vulcan. At first, Telemus' questions and advice seemed strange to him, that the old man was just butting in, however he found that the old man's questions to be more instructional than curious. It took Kregor a little while to realize Telemus's subtle teaching. "Yes… I did, but it was her decision and she had already made it."

"Perhaps next time she will heed your concerns. Caution is not cowardly, many Captains loose their ships before they realize this."

"Perhaps.." Kregor echoed, then he straightened up a little. "Lord Telemus, please, come with me."

"Very well."

* * *

His first encounter with the Andorians was less than pleasant. Telemus was thrown into a dimly lit cell, and the energy door was activated. Slowly he got to his feet, using the bench to stand since they had deprived him of his cane, and he walked to the doorway to look out.

There was a single guard with his back towards the door, armed with a blue weapon that matched his skin. For a few moments, Telemus watched the twitching antennae that protruded from his white hair, and he considered their purpose. Scent, hearing, balance… telepathy? Suddenly the guard's antennae stood up straight, focusing on the door as it opened, and another Andorian walked in.

The guard saluted and Telemus stepped back. He didn't fear them, because death was never something he feared, and he had endured pain before. He had the scars to prove it. But the Andorians seemed to operate on a volatile system of respect that he easily recognized. This particular Andorian was the captain, and Telemus observed that he looked permanently angry.

The captain mashed the button to speak to his prisoner. "I am Commander Shran." He paused, as if waiting for eminent applause. "You have _violated_ Andorian space. I demand an explanation, or else your people will find themselves in _another_ war that they will inevitably _lose_."

Telemus raised an eyebrow, keeping his amusement of the angry Andorian internalized. "I have no desire for war. I was only a passenger on that ship, and I was not aware we approached your territory. My name is Telemus."

Shran narrowed his eyes in response. "You're _lying_! All Vulcans are liars! Tell me what I want to know!"

"That statement is illogical. All is an absolute and some is a particular. Some would be more satisfactory."

"No!" Shran shouted, banging his fist on the wall. "_All_ Vulcans! You will tell me what you are doing here!"

"I was traveling as a passenger on the ship you removed me from, and now I am here."

As amusing as it was to torment and play with the Andorian, Telemus knew that it was the best time to stop, or he would risk pushing him too far. Shran's face had turned a darker shade of blue, and he nearly shook.

"You're _lying_! You're a _spy_! You are here to find out the strength of the Imperial Guard!" Shran narrowed his eyes again, and lowered his voice. "If you do not start telling the truth, then you'll regret it."

"I am speaking the truth," Telemus replied. "I am not a spy. I was a traveler, and I was not aware of the violation of your territory, and I apologize."

"You apologize," Shran said in a low tone. He took his hand off of the comm. button and deactivated the shield, entering the cell quickly. Before Telemus could react, Shran shoved him forward into the wall, digging his elbow into his back.

The Andorian was fast, Telemus would credit him with that. Certainly, if most or all of the race was like this, then they would make good warriors. Their high explosiveness would be their downfall. He clenched his jaw at the pain of Shran's elbow in the small of his back. "I'm not.. a spy," he said in a strained voice.

"You're lying!" Shran shouted back.

Telemus shifted his weight, and pushed against the wall to knock Shran back, but the Andorian grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back and slamming him against the wall again.

"You will not get far like this," Shran said angrily, gripping Telemus's arm harder. His thumb touched something raised under the sleeve, like a scar. Narrowing his eyes, Shran loosened his grip to pull back the sleeve. There was a raised marking on the top of Telemus's arm, in the form of a brand. Slaves had them, but Shran didn't recognize the character. He gripped the arm harder, looking up at him.

"What is this?" he demanded. "Who marked you?"

Telemus was beginning to grow agitated and he pulled hard to get his arm away from Shran. "It is not.. your concern," he said through clenched teeth.

"Tell me!" Shran cried. "Who marked you, what does it say!"

"Nothing… to you."

Twisting the arm further back, Shran then quickly pulled Telemus away from the wall and shoved him to the ground further into the cell. Once on the ground, Telemus didn't get up. His leg throbbed and he knew it wouldn't hold him without his cane. He was feeling his age more now.

Shran advanced towards him, looking down with disgust. "You're not a slave. Too much spirit. But you will tell me, Vulcan scum."

* * *

Malcolm was unaccustomed to sleeping on the ground, and despite the repairs and skeleton crew on his ship, he still slept in his cabin on Helos. The ship was his, not some temporary place of residence while he was away from Earth. But even being on the ship, the lack of the warp engine's constant presence disturbed his sleep.

As the comm. chirped, Malcolm wasn't really asleep, and he sighed as he got up to answer it. He sat down in front of his computer monitor, not bothering to change into his uniform from the blue tank top and grey pants that served as his bedclothes, and he touched the button to accept the transmission.

Gardner's face appeared across from him. The man never slept. "Reed. Is this channel secure?"

"You opened it, sir," Malcolm commented with a sigh, and checked the security. "Yes, it's secure."

Any normal person might have apologized for disturbing Reed so late, or inquired whether or not the call had woken him. But Gardner expected everyone to be immediately at his disposal. Permanently at his disposal. "Something's come up, I need to pull you off guard duty."

Malcolm felt relief at the words. "What is it, sir?"

"We intercepted a transmission of an Andorian ship bragging home to the Imperial Guard that they've caught a Vulcan spy. Evidently the High Commander hasn't been notified and neither has Earth. I need you to go pick this Vulcan up before a war starts… then I want to know what he knows."

His enthusiasm faded and he frowned. "Sir, this is a Vulcan matter, not ours."

"It concerns _me_, Captain Reed," Gardner said in a low tone. "Vulcans don't get caught spying, and this whole thing stinks to high hell."

"What do you want me to do with this Vulcan?"

"Detain him and bring him back here. Use what force you deem necessary."

"Aye sir… when do we leave?"

"Now, Reed. Get your crew and go as soon as you can before the Vulcans find out."

Malcolm folded his arms. "Aye, sir."

"Fine.. then notify me when you get him. Oh, and take Tucker with you. Enterprise doesn't need him. The Andorian Commander's name is Shran, and Tucker has a…history with him."

Bringing Trip on board would be a challenge, and Malcolm didn't know if it would be worth it. Helos was a tight-running ship. Trip wouldn't really fit in.

"Aye, sir.."

"Then let me know," he said, and ended the transmission.

Malcolm clenched his fists. He was even more irritated every time he talked to the man. Reaching over, he pressed the ship comm. on the wall. "Reed to Carnahan."

There was a pause before Carnahan's groggy voice came over the speaker. "Carnahan here, sir.."

"We need to recall the crew, we've got some place to go."

"Am I permitted to know where, sir?"

"Later. Just get the crew back."


	9. Chapter 9

Sorry for the break. Summer kind of means irregular updates from me sometimes because when school is in session I'm more apt to write regularly like between classes (or in classes). Anywho, I'm trying to keep this one going because I've got some active ideas, and like long term ideas, which will hopefully stay in my head for awhile. And then I also got the cool (e-vil) idea for the end of this chapter. ...:D? We'll see. Bad pirate Malcolm. Um. That's all. Enjoy.

* * *

Part 9

The door to the cell opened, flushing out Jon's unused senses. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to curl into a tighter ball in the corner. The stubble on his face had grown thicker and his skin was paler.

As Pepper walked in, his boots sounded like thunder to Jon's ears. He tried to curl up more.

"Get up."

Swallowing hard in fear, Jon didn't move.

"I said, get up slave," Pepper ordered and grabbed Jon's arm to haul him to his feet.

The movement immediately hurt. Jon wanted to fight. He didn't want to stay. He was scared. He didn't want to go. His muscles ached. He didn't move—didn't help Pepper pick him up.

The guard was strong though, and he easily pulled Jon up. Maybe they ought to throw him in this room more often and he would be better behaved. At least he wasn't fighting now, but he also wasn't standing. That was his own fault. Pepper started to drag him out of the chamber and all the way into the dusty courtyard.

Some of the healing scabs on Jon's back started to break as he was dragged. He didn't dare open his eyes. Pepper dropped him in the dirt as Salt walked over.

"I told you. Pay up."

Salt folded his arms. "You sound out of breath."

"He's heavy," Pepper said, taking a deep breath. "Pay up. He didn't fight, you lost the bet."

Sneering, Salt dug into his pocket and produced a handful of credits. "He's a player, he's supposed to fight."

"Some of the trainers use sensory deprivation to condition them. It's like poking a gorod with a stick until it stops chewing on everything."

Salt reluctantly handed over the credits. "I want to know how you know all this. You don't get out that much."

"I just know. Help me carry him."

As the two guards started to pick Jon up again, he began to struggle with his eyes still closed. It was only halfhearted—if he had to, Jon could have taken them both down easily, and he had beaten them in hand-to-hand combat before. That was why they kept him in fear. As soon as Salt kicked at him, he stopped fighting.

They dragged him past Cha'ka's cell. Jon could smell it. He opened his eyes a little. Vaguely, he could see a dark figure inside, who moved a little and lifted his head as Jon was dragged by. Cha'ka sniffed a little, recognizing his friend, but he made no sound, and laid his head back down. Jon closed his eyes too.

Instead, they brought him to another cell. One with a different smell. The creature inside growled at him.

Salt let go of Jon to unlock the door. "Are you sure this is a good idea to put the two of them in the same cage?"

"It's what Master Zane ordered." Pepper half shrugged. "Apparently he doesn't have a problem if only one of them is alive in the morning."

With a malicious grin, Salt grabbed Jon's head by his hair, and pulled his head back so that Jon was facing him with his eyes squeezed shut. "I bet you'll be the dead one. No loss, I'll be glad not to have to deal with your stubborn ass anymore."

He let go of Jon's head and pulled out his baton, activating the electric charge, and then Salt entered the cell ahead of Pepper. As soon as the other figure in the cell took a swipe at him, Salt swung the baton at him, and one electric charge was enough to keep it away.

Pepper threw Jon in the cell rather unceremoniously and quickly stepped out again, with Salt following and slamming the door quickly. "I'll take you up on that bet," Pepper commented.

"Which one? That the human won't survive?" Salt said with a grin. "You're loss."

However, in the morning, Salt had to pay for a second time. He would place no more bets against the human.

* * *

T'Pol was opposed to having to sit and watch the tournament game on Gerot. She was also opposed to having to spent so much time with Jaurrel, but it was necessary. She believed his threat to reveal the information on her family to the High Command. Jaurrel had always been one to draw out emotion in her. Unfortunately for him, it was not attraction but repulsion.

She turned her eyes back to the large transparent windows that overlooked the arena from the high elevation of the observation pods. It was actually an understatement to call it a 'pod'. One of them, floating above the arena, could fit thousands of spectators. T'Pol's opinion of them was that they were actually quite advanced for such a purpose.

The arena itself was aesthetically pleasing. Gerot was not a pleasant planet to look at, but the arena was much different—more exotic. She vaguely recalled being told that many of the plant life was brought in from other planets just for the arena. With that in mind, she questioned why they did not apply the plants to the rest of the planet at the same time.

There were groves of trees of multiple colors; blue, green, white, yellow, and some that were even in bloom in soft pink that looked fluffy and pregnant with their flowers. There was grassland, and rocky land, and a river that sliced through the arena like an unsteady hand. There were hills and holes, and rocks enough for players to hide behind and use as cover. As beautiful and exotic as it was, it was still obvious that it had been built for a purpose.

T'Pol found that purpose to be barbaric. Even most Vulcans had seen at least one tournament match, and most of them did not approve and found it illogical. There were a few, Jaurrel included, who preferred to watch. As she accompanied Jaurrel reluctantly, T'Pol was expected to attend.

Zane was present as well. He reminded T'Pol of some kind of rodent, including his self-centered attitude. Fortunately, he and Jaurrel seemed to be occupying themselves well enough on their own and ignoring her. Which was fine. T'Pol sat quietly in the padded chair next to Jaurrel in front of the observation windows, while her head of security sat behind her. Mertil.

"How much trouble has this human caused?" Jaurrel asked calmly.

"Too much. One of my Unas laborers was down for a good couple of weeks because of him, and now I've lost another of my players because they were caged together." Zane narrowed his eyes. "I was hoping that the human would learn his lesson, not kill the other one. Not that it would have been a loss if the human died."

Jaurrel glanced at him. "But it proves the human's worth, does it not? That is why you are having him fight today."

"I suppose so. He had better win though. I at least want some money for my trouble."

Sighing softly, T'Pol looked over at both of them. "Perhaps you should have considered this when you purchased a human slave. There are few of them for a reason."

"Ah, yes. She speaks," Zane replied with a smooth grin. "This particular human happens to be the only one to play in the games successfully. He should have been winning me lots of money, not causing trouble in my compound."

"Your logic is not sound," T'Pol said simply.

"This has nothing to do with logic," Zane shot back. "When are you Vulcans going to realize that the rest of the galaxy doesn't run on your Surak's logic."

T'Pol raised an eyebrow at the comment, but Jaurrel raised his hand to signal to stop. "It begins."

The clock began running. Players were let loose on the field and immediately three of them fell victim to more experienced fighters. The field became chaos that was controlled by the walls of the arena.

Along with the large observation windows of the pod, the observers were also equipped with personal viewscreens if they wished to focus in on a specific player. T'Pol didn't use hers. She wasn't concerned with the game as much.

* * *

It dragged on for her. She could see the bodies well enough from the pod windows. In fact, she could even see the human occasionally, but he was fast and always found a place to hide. His style was different than that of some of the others. Jon hid or ran while the valued players stalked their prey.

In this particular match, there were few slaves, and most were already dead. The others consisted of criminals, war veterans too scarred to return home, and a champion from the outside—someone who decided voluntarily to play. T'Pol thought that the endeavor was foolish.

She caught sight of the human again. The remaining players were thinning out. The human came out of his hiding place and he ran. She watched him encounter two others, one that he killed with the rifle, and another that he fought with his bare hands when he had seemingly run out of ammunition. She didn't see the details of the fight, only that a few minutes later, there was another body on the ground, and the human ran again.

He stopped at one of the groves of trees. The swollen pink ones. T'Pol was tempted to lean in closer to see what was going on. This was unusual; throughout the entire match, the human either ran or hid until he could fight, now he was standing at the edge of the grove of trees. Curiously, she picked up the viewscreen beside her to see what he was doing.

Jon walked slowly under the trees with the assault rifle he had procured from the last player he countered hanging from one hand at his side. He walked under the trees with bare feet, leaving behind footprints in the fallen flower petals as the ones he stepped on stuck to his skin. The ground had turned pink with them. He had never seen anything like it.

Flower petals snowed from the branches of the trees. They floated down all around him. Some landed in his hair and remained there. He lifted his head to look up, watching them fall. There were still so many more left on the trees.

He never forgot he was in the arena, but here didn't feel like the arena. There was no blood. There were no bodies. Jon was the one that brought the weapon to the sanctuary. As he lifted his hand out to try to catch some of the petals, he was the only one that wore blood. Some of it wasn't even his.

A petal fell lightly on his open hand. He didn't dare to close his hand on it for fear of destroying it, but he just let it lay where it had fallen. Then carefully, he tilted his hand to the side and let the petal fall again to the carpet of pink. If he could, Jon would have wanted to remain here, where it was quiet. Among the petal snow.

Looking up again, his eyes caught sight of one of the observation pods hovering over the arena. He knew they were always watching him, even here in the tree sanctuary, but now he could feel it.

T'Pol had been watching from the personal viewscreen. No slave, player or not, had she ever seen behave like this. She could almost sense his curiosity from this distance. But what really struck her was when he looked up—straight at her. Those eyes looked into her, even though he couldn't possibly have actually seen her from the arena floor.

* * *

Trip yawned in protest to getting woken up because of someone at the door of his quarters at 2 am, and he rubbed his face as he shuffled out to answer the door. Hoshi was still asleep. He had kissed her forehead and murmured for her to stay in bed before he got up, and he had only gotten a faint reply. She was still banged up from the incident on Enterprise. Trip felt very protective of her now.

He blinked a few times to clear his vision before he pressed the button to open the door, and found himself staring into the serious face of Malcolm Reed. "Kinda late, ain't it, Mal?" he asked, yawning again.

Drawing in a deep breath, Malcolm lifted his chin a little. "I need you to come with me, Trip."

The statement surprised him a little. Trip creased his brow. Malcolm was flanked by both Dax Carnahan and another man from Helos in a black uniform trimmed with red, marking him as security personnel. "What's this 'bout…?" Trip asked hesitantly.

"There isn't much time to explain," Malcolm replied shortly. "I need you to get your uniform and come with us."

"The hell? It's two in the damn morning, Malcolm. I ain't goin' anywhere but back to bed. This cloak an' dagger crap ain't my thing," Trip said stubbornly, folding his arms.

Dax made a move with one hand, drawing Trip's attention. In fact, Dax had put his hand on his side arm. Trip felt a thick feeling of dread spread up from the pit of his stomach all the way to his throat. All three of them were armed.

"What the hell is goin' on!" Trip demanded, looking sharply at Malcolm in alarm. "You come to my place in the middle of the night with _gun_, what the hell is goin' on!"

Malcolm narrowed his eyes briefly, but otherwise his face didn't change. "I have my orders. I'm sorry, Trip. Get your uniform, you need to come with us."

"I'm tellin' you, I ain't goin' anywhere. I don't know who the hell gave you those orders, but I didn't hear nothin'-…"

"Trip?" Hoshi called sleepily from the doorway to the bedroom. "What is it?"

He sighed slowly and called back over his shoulder. "It's nothin', Hosh, go back to bed."

Slowly Malcolm took a step forward, reaching out to grab Trip's shoulder. "Listen to me."

"Don't touch me, you bastard!" Trip spat out and pushed him away, only to find himself staring at Dax's side arm aimed at his face. He backed down, and he clenched his jaw, looking from Dax's alien partial weapon to Malcolm's face with the hatred of betrayal.

"Trip, listen. You need to come with me now," Malcolm said calmly. "Get what you need, say goodbye to Hoshi, and I guarantee that I will have you back here within a month—two at the most. But it needs to be now."

Trip tightened his hands into fists, and he would have taken a swing if Dax hadn't been still aiming at him. "Go to hell, Reed."

With a quick nod to Dax, who then lowered his weapon with some reluctance, Malcolm folded his arms. "I don't want to use force, Trip. But I have my orders and I will."

Scowling, Trip turned and limped into the bedroom. He knew he didn't have a choice at this point. They were taking him into space. Betrayal was still his dominant emotion, and he knew that as soon as that faded, it would be the same overpowering fear as before. Whoever had ordered this was an idiot. He started to pull his clothes out, and a few other things, tossing them at random into a bag.

Hoshi hadn't gone back to bed, especially not after she heard how angry Trip sounded. She stood off to the side, hugging her arms to herself. Slowly, she walked over to Malcolm.

Dax shifted uneasily as she approached, but Malcolm held up his hand for him to stand down. "Hoshi, you understand, I have my orders. I must do this."

Narrowing her eyes, she stared at him hard. Then she slapped him.


	10. Chapter 10

Wow, ok. Sorry for the delay, apparently I can only really write when I'm in school? Anyway, I do appreciate the people who bugged me a little to get this written. I was kind of bogged down for a fiction writing class where this would obviously not be admissable, so that unfortunately takes priority, but I'm trying to keep up on this one. I've even got the next chapter started, so I hope that I haven't lost too many of you. Please review, I really appreciate your feedback.

* * *

Part 10

T'Pol felt distinctly out of place in the slave courtyard in her Vulcan robes, being led by the guard Salt towards a cage that really looked no different than the others. The guard had reluctantly agreed to take her, and only with the insistence of the imposing Mertil, who followed T'Pol closely. Needless to say, he didn't want to cause a conflict with Mertil. Despite being an emotionless Vulcan, Metil was large and intimidating, especially with his pointed eyebrows that made him look permanently angry.

Salt stopped outside of a darkened cage and knocked on the bars with his baton. It pleased him to hear the panicked rustling inside the cage, even if he could only see shadows and not the expression on the slave's face. "The lady wants to see you. Get up and behave," he instructed.

He waited as Jon slowly got to his feet and stood back from the door. Salt was convinced that he would have this slave trained sooner or later. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside and grabbed Jon by his shirt, trying to shove the restraining collar on him, but Jon's eyes grew wide and he pulled back, pushing and clawing at Salt.

The guard himself was physically bigger, but his skill was less than to be desired, and while he was able to hold his own against Jon's small fight, the collar was knocked to the ground. Narrowing his eyes, Salt grabbed his baton and struck Jon across the face with it.

"You need to learn, slave," he growled and reached down to pick up the collar as Jon recoiled against the wall. As he made a move to fight again, Salt raised the baton and this time Jon backed down a little, enough so that Salt could move in and snap the collar around his neck. He gave Jon a harsh poke in the ribs with the baton for good measure before he stepped out of the cell and looked to T'Pol.

"He's all yours if you want to see him, though I really don't know why you would, there's nothing special about him except he's a pain in the ass," Salt said with a shrug.

T'Pol raised an eyebrow at him. "Your services are no longer needed, you may return to your other duties."

Folding his arms, Salt gave her a confused look. "I'm staying with you, especially if you're going in there with him."

"Mertil will stand guard."

"It's not just _you_ I'm worried about," Salt continued. "If anything happens to _him_.. it's my neck that Master Zane will punish."

"No harm will come to him either," T'Pol replied calmly. "You may leave."

He gave her a suspicious glance and looked her over once last time before he shoved the controler to the collar into her hand and turned to leave. The door to the cell was left open just a little, but Jon didn't go near it.

T'Pol looked up at Mertil. "I will not be long," she said, and held out the collar control to him instead.

"Milady, you should keep that," Mertil said in a low tone.

"Yes, I am aware that he is dangerous. You and the guard warned me against this multiple times when only once was necessary. Take it."

Letting out a deep breath, Mertil reached out and took the controller from her, and he stepped aside to position himself next to the cell door, with his back to the wall. As he looked over the courtyard, he noted that many of the other slaves watched them as well. Zane certainly had a diverse collection.

T'Pol walked inside the cell. It took her eyes very little time to adjust to the dim light and to be able to see the human figure standing with his back against the wall in front of her in much more detail. He was dirty and he smelled like sweat.. and human. His arms were at his sides, and the palms of his hands were pressed up against the wall as he stared at her with wide eyes. They were a sort of grayish-green color. Certainly she had observed all kinds of eyes and eye color before, but for a human, she had never seen this.

Slowly, she stepped forward. He flinched. T'Pol looked up into his eyes. Jon was nearly a head taller than her, broad-shouldered and muscular. But she didn't fear him. Of course, she didn't feel anything at all. As she brought her hand up slowly towards his face, she did feel a temptation to meld with his mind and find out where he came from. She was intrigued. Instead, she settled for lightly brushing the mark that the guard's baton had made on his face.

Jon pulled back at first. He tensed at her touch. She was Vulcan, he had been with them before. His experience with Vulcans had been much less than pleasant. He had scars from the last one that still made him twitch a little at the memory. Her touch was different, she was gently. Most Vulcans seemed harsh or blunt with little or no consideration for the rest of the universe. She didn't demand anything from him. She was quiet; she waited. But she still had no idea what she wanted.

"My name is T'Pol," she said calmly. "What do they call you?"

He hesitated, looking around for some way to tell her. He was afraid to write it in the dirt—guards beat him for that. Writing was forbidden. He looked back at her, creasing his brow in confusing and thought. But then he relaxed his face some as he thought of an answer. Cautiously, he reached up for her hand, watching her reaction in case it upset her. She remained emotionless, seeing what he was doing with interest. It made him a little more brave.

He turned her hand over and looked down at her palm, then he traced his finger over it. Slowly he began to trace a J, and then an O, and an N. Then he looked up at her for understanding.

"Jon," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Can you not speak?"

He shook his head a little.

She reached up to touch the edge of the scars under the restraint collar, but Jon pulled back sharply with wide eyes. His panicked breathing was audible in the small cage. T'Pol brought her hand back in slight alarm. She rarely interacted with slaves, and she wasn't used to their behavior.

"I will not hurt you," she stated.

Jon wasn't sure if he believed her. He didn't trust her yet.

She sighed softly and then added, "There is no reason for it. It would benefit nothing."

Chewing on his lip, he looked around uncomfortably. T'Pol brought her hand up to the side of his face and he looked back to her.

"You do not have to fear me, Jon. I saw you fighting. No other human fights and wins like you. But you were not born into this were you?"

Swallowing hard, Jon looked uneasy, still not entirely sure what she wanted, but he shook his head.

"Where do you come from?" she asked quietly. When he didn't answer, she brought her hand down. "Of course, you cannot answer."

Jon looked down a little. Slowly, T'Pol reached into a pocket of her robe and pulled out a small package, presenting it to him.

Narrowing his eyes at her, he regarded the package with some suspicion. But the smell of food won him over and he could distinguish meat and the flat smell of bread. He snatched it from her and held onto it protectively.

"That is yours," she said softly and stepped back. "I may see you later, Jon."

She left quickly and Mertil slammed the cage door shut with a permanent scowl. Jon didn't move again until Mertil went to follow T'Pol. He stepped forward and gripped the bars with one hand, clutching the package of food with his other, watching her walk out of the slave courtyard. He kind of wanted her to come back. And he wasn't entirely sure why.

* * *

The doctor smelled strongly of alcohol. In fact, the whole infirmary reeked of it. It certainly wasn't easing Trip's anxiety. He gripped the edge of the exam table with white-knuckled hands.

Waving the scanner in his hand, the doctor rolled his eyes. "You need to relax, Commander. I'm not going to stab you with something. Except for maybe something with anti-anxiety meds in it."

Trip swallowed hard, trying to get some moisture in his mouth. "How'd you even end up on this ship?"

The doctor shrugged. "Admiral Gardner's orders. I know what I'm doing, son. I've probably got a hell of a lot more experience in this man's Starfleet than you do. So what the hell's wrong with your leg?"

Trip tensed a little as the doctor started to scan his leg. Along with the strong smell of alcohol, he had a two-day beard, bloodshot eyes and his clothes were wrinkled. Trip wouldn't be at all surprised if the doctor just passed out in the infirmary last night. However, his hands were steady as he scanned his leg.

The doctor's eyes widened a little and he creased his brow as the scanner image came up. "Wow. That's impressive. There's a lot of damage in here… I'm surprised you can even walk, son."

Trip sighed. "Yeah, me too. All I need is somethin' for the pain though, an' that's it."

"In fact, I'm surprised you've even got a leg left," the doctor continued, ignoring him. "It looks like more metal than leg."

"Um yeah. Hurts pretty bad too. All I need is a hypospray for the pain."

"So what happened?" the doctor asked, folding his arms. "Obviously you've had a lot of work done on it. If I'm going to treat you, I need to know your medical history."

Trip drew in a deep breath and let go of the exam table, sliding his palms across his thighs to wipe the sweat off. "Um, it's complicated and.. kinda classified. Just.. gimme the painkillers. That's all I need."

Frowning, the doctor reached over for the hypospray and charged it with the cylinder before he pressed it into Trip's left thigh.

"Does this happen a lot? Are you going to need more of them?"

He relaxed just a little, as much as he could while in space, as the pain started to fade away. "Sometimes. It's worse out here, ain't usually this bad."

"You really can't tell me?"

"No. It's a old injury, it ain't even goina get better, they done all they can for it. All that can be done now is stuff for the pain."

"Well, whatever. Not my problem. I guess I'll be seeing you a lot," the doctor said with a frown.

The door to the infirmary hissed open and both of them looked up as Malcolm walked in. He disliked this part of his ship, mostly because of the horrible doctor that Gardner outfitted him with—there had to be a better candidate than this man. Malcolm disliked him so much that he had never learned the man's name.

"What is wrong with him?" he demanded.

"Just medication dispensing," the doctor said, picking up a nearby bottle. "Want some, Captain?"

Malcolm narrowed his eyes at him but turned to Trip. "Your leg?" he asked. "Are you well now?"

"Only if you send me home," Trip said bitterly.

"Unfortunately not an option," Malcolm replied and folded his arms. "Can you walk?"

"Yeah, back to my quarters."

"Very well, I'll accompany you."

Trip drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly before he slid off of the exam table. Pan radiated up his leg as soon as he touched the floor, and it continued to creep up his lower back and rode his spine up to his head. For a moment, his face turned white and his hands gripped the edge of the table as if to avoid death. Or at least passing out.

There was a murmur of concern on Malcolm's brow, and he reached forward to steady him. But Trip roughly shrugged his hand away.

"I don't need your damn help," he said irritably, and started to limp towards the door.

Sighing, Malcolm began to follow him. "Fine. I won't offer, you can clearly walk on your own."

"Shut up. I don't need your crap, Malcolm."

The Captain half-smiled as he walked beside him. "I take it that you still have trouble with this at home."

"I'm not getting' into it," Trip said through clenched teeth.

"They still don't believe you, do they?"

Trip stopped walking and he turned to face Malcolm. The paleness of pain was partially gone, and being replaced on his face with an angry red. "This ain't in my head. It hurts, all the damn time!"

"Yes," Malcolm agreed. "And it hurts worse now that you are in space. What does that say?"

"Says you're a jerk."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "All right, calm down. I'm not doubting that you're in pain."

"Yeah, right-…" He stopped when the ship shuddered. Trip's face went white again but it was so obviously different that Malcolm knew it wasn't from the pain. He frowned.

"Trip, you're a mess. Come with me, I'll take you to your quarters." Malcolm reached out for his arm and Trip pulled away again.

"Don't.. touch me," he said cautiously.

"Come on. It was only the pilot doing a course correction. Walk with me, then."

Trip eyed him warily, but he started to limp along slowly. There was a lot of irrational fear in the moment. Things like the floor falling out from under him, or the ship randomly exploded and the entire crew dying. Or a spontaneous attack, which wasn't really so irrational. It had happened before. It made his leg fell more unsteady. Space was cold. Cold made old wounds ache.

As they walked, Malcolm was quiet and occasionally watching Trip and his pale face. If he was worried, it wasn't obvious. Malcolm's face instead was stern and focused. He wasn't here to babysit Commander Tucker.

Stopping at the door, Malcolm pressed the button to open it. "I've got to talk to you anyway. You might as well sit down and rest that leg of yours."

"You don't need me out here," Trip said, sitting down on his bed. "You'd be better off sendin' me back. Better for everyone."

"I have my orders though, and I do need you here." Malcolm pressed the button to close the door and he pulled a chair over to face Trip. Not that he had to drag it far. It was actually the first time that Malcolm had been in Trip's claustrophobic quarters, and honestly he wasn't surprised that Trip had pulled a blanket over the window to block out the stars.

Trip folded his arms. "These magic orders that I ain't ever heard."

Pulling his eyes away from the blanket, Malcolm focused again on Trip. "We are getting close, so now is the time."

"Fine. What the hell do you want, Malcolm?"

A small smile crossed his face. "An Andorian Imperial Guard ship captured a rogue Vulcan near their territory. Naturally, this is a problem. They never took him to Andoria, perhaps… being Andorians, they are just waiting for a reward or the glory of gaining his information. Either way, they still have him on an outpost along the edge of their space… Are you all right?"

Trip started back at Malcolm and he swallowed hard. "Who is it? The Andorian, who is it?"

"A commander called Shran," Malcolm replied. "Admiral Gardner thinks there is something with this Vulcan, and you have to help us convince Shran to give him over."

He licked his dry lips. "How soon?"

With a deep breath, Malcolm stood up. "Fairly soon. You should get some rest so you don't look like you are about to have a breakdown."

"I'm fine, Mal," Trip said in a low tone.

"Very well then. I'll let you know when we are close." Malcolm turned to leave. He had accomplished what he had come to do—a short and efficient declaration of orders. As far as how Trip held himself together, well… that wasn't his concern.

Once the door slid shut, Trip let out a shuddering breath, and he lifted his leg onto the bed. He carefully pulled his pant leg up to his mid-thigh, and he began to slowly massage the angry and mangled muscles.


	11. Chapter 11

This entire chapter is written out in my notebook, just to show you how exciting my classes are... I also seem to be going through a pen ink tube about once every two and a half weeks. This isn't from taking notes. Anywho, some Shran, Trip and Telemus action here. And um, no Jon this chapter, but probably plenty of him next chapter. We'll see. Enjoy, and please review. Thanks.

Part 11

"_Commander, we've detected an incoming vessel." _

Shran narrowed his eyes and stormed towards the command center of the outpost. When the door opened, he burst in like a deadly winter blizzard on Andoria. He knew this was coming, it wouldn't be too long before the Vulcan's comrades came to rescue him.

"Where is it?" he demanded. "I want to see it. Is it a war ship? What did the Vulcans send?"

The young lieutenant who had called him there stared with wide eyes and his antennae twitching nervously. "It's a human vessel, Commander."

Both of Shran's antennae fell at once. "Human? What are they doing here? Did you hail them?"

The lieutenant swallowed hard and shook his head. "No, Commander, we have not."

Shran narrowed his eyes. "What is wrong with you! Hail them, find out why they've come! Are they armed?"

"Yes Commander," the more competent communications officer replied. "They are answering the hail; on screen."

Folding his arms, Shran faced the screen. He had heard of the human ship, but he had never met the captain personally and he assumed that the chiseled face with a distinctive scar and dark hair was the man himself.

"Identify yourself," Shran demanded.

The man lifted his chin a little and set his jaw, but Shran was in no way intimidated by him. "I am Captain Malcolm Reed of the Helos. You are Commander Shran, and we have business together."

Shran's antennae stood straight up on his head. "What makes _you_ think we have any _business_ together! What do you want!"

"You seem to have acquired a Vulcan prisoner," Malcolm replied.

"You have no business with him, he's _my_ prisoner," Shran growled. "I don't know you, human. This is not Starfleet's concern!"

Malcolm sighed calmly, and he nodded a little. "But I have someone who does know you."

He stepped back a little and instead the familiar face of Trip appeared. Shran narrowed his eyes and his antennae twitched a little. "I would have thought that you would be dead by now, pinkskin."

The corner of Trip's mouth tugged a little at a small smile. "Let's just talk, Shran. That's all. You know me."

"Yes… I do," Shran said reluctantly. "Fine. On my terms. You..and that captain will come here. Unarmed. Violate my terms and I will fire on and destroy your ship."

Behind Trip, Malcolm half smiled. "You couldn't manage to destroy my ship."

Shran stood up so straight that his back arched just slightly, and his eyes grew wider. "You don't believe me!" he shrieked. "I'll prove it!"

"Shran calm down, we believe you," Trip said quickly, and he shot a sharp glare at Malcolm. "We'll come down in a shuttle, just the two of us. An' unarmed. Nothin' to worry 'bout."

The Andorian narrowed his eyes a little. "Very well. Land outside of the compound and we'll come to meet you."

The transmission ended abruptly. Shran was done talking. Trip's shoulders slouched a little.

"He is quite obnoxious," Malcolm commented.

"Yeah. We're goin' home after this, right?" Trip asked.

Folding his arms, Malcolm glanced over at him. "Yes. In theory."

* * *

Shran brought ten armed guards with him to meet the shuttle from Helos. As the hatch opened, Malcolm stepped out and raised an eyebrow at the entourage of guards.

"I respect your caution, Commander, but this is hardly necessary," he said calmly.

Narrowing his eyes a little, Shran motioned to him with one hand. "Search him."

As Trip carefully stepped out of the shuttle, Malcolm glanced back at him and rolled his eyes. Everyone knew that Andorians were paranoid, but most thought it was an over-exaggerated stereotype, but Shran was a reason for it to persist.

When they found nothing, the guards went to search Trip. He didn't move or protest. Once Shran was satisfied, they could all just continue. Trust was key for the Andorians. They had reasons to be paranoid with the Vulcans constantly looking over their shoulders.

The guards returned to Shran's side obediently and one spoke quietly into his ear to report they had found nothing. Shran's antennae twitched a little and he looked Trip over.

"You don't look well, pinkskin. You seem more like a pale-skin. Weak," he commented.

Trip drew in a deep breath. "War wounds. Let's just go talk an' get this over, huh?"

A hint of a smile crossed Shran's face. "Follow us."

The outpost was nestled on a jungle planet. Had they been children, it might have been a fun adventure. But with Malcolm's knowledge of the rest of the universe, he didn't trust the jungle. Trip was too skittish in general, and he concentrated too much on limping through the dense roots and vines to think anything over their surroundings. By the time they got there, he was exhausted.

Shran's outpost was sparse, metal and military. They were led to a metal room with a single window, and a metal table with metal chairs.

Trip sat down heavily. "Got a metal fetish, Shran?"

The chair that Shran took scraped along the grated metal floor. "What do you want, pinkskin?"

"We already told you. It's about the Vulcan," Malcolm said curtly. He found no need to sit down and cause any more agony to his ears with the metal chairs and floor.

"The _Vulcan_ is _my_ prisoner," Shran said sharply.

"Where did you find him, what are you doing with him?" Malcolm asked quickly.

Shran slammed his hand on the table. "Why should I tell you anything! This isn't a Starfleet concern. _My_ prisoner!"

Sighing softly, Trip leaned back and rubbed his injured thigh. "What's so important 'bout the Vulcan anyway, Shran? That's all we wanna know."

Shran looked at him sharply and his antennae stood up angrily, but then they dropped slightly as he focused on Trip. "This.. Vulcan spy…he was on a small freighter on the edge of our territory. _Our_ territory! He's a spy! It's more than suspicion, it's fact!"

"Has he said anythin'?"

"I'll get what I want to know from him."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "Let us see him."

"No! You are not intergalactic police, you can't take charge in _my_ outpost!"

"Shran.." Trip sighed. "Just calm down. Let us see him. If somethin' comes of it, maybe he'll tell us what he was doin' there in the first place."

It took a long moment for Shran to decide. He stared at the window. His antennae flinched every so often with what he was thinking. After so long, he turned to look at Trip. "Anything he tells you, you tell me."

"Alright. That ain't too hard." Trip slowly stood up, with both hands on the edge of the table.

* * *

_Trip shivered. Space was much colder than he ever thought it would be. What ever warmth that had been in his tube to begin with was slowly leaking out. To have survived miraculously in some closed off section of an access tube, only to freeze and suffocate because there was a pinhole leak was the worst kind of fate. But maybe the pain of his leg would just make him pass out before he froze. Trip let out a strangled and panicked cry for help. But.. there was the old cliché about the silence of space._

_By the time he woke up, his lips were blue and his fingers had gone numb. The only thing that was warm, was the bleeding of his leg. But even that had slowed._

_Trip wasn't even sure what woke him up, not until his section of the access tube clunked against something. His eyes widened a little and he looked up in hope. Living was such a priority that he didn't care who pulled him out of the cold expanse._

_The metal above his head was pulled back and a pair of Vulcans looked in on him. One of them frowned at him and spoke in another language to his companion. Trip didn't understand them; it didn't sound like Vulcan that he had heard before. But it didn't matter. Warmth flooded his small cabin, and air. Life._

_He felt detached like a dream. They reached down to pull him out. It was nice, but his leg was moved and there was someone screaming. _

_What kind of place was this?_

_It was his voice screaming, he realized. The world rushed back and the haze of rescue and life was gone._

_He vaguely felt the two Vulcans set him on the ground. It smelled like blood. He didn't know if it was his or not. _

_There was another voice yelling at him. This time it wasn't him. It was Jon._

"_Trip! Get out of here! Fight them, get out!"_

_He lifted his head just a little, and he was at first confused through the new pain fog. Why was Jon here? The ship blew up. He felt it. They should all be dead, but there were others from the ship too. Others that should have been dead. And one of the Vulcans hit Jon with a black baton._

"_Hey!" Trip creased his brow a little, but there was someone walking towards him with an accented gait that he could feel through the floor. It even vibrated through his leg, and Trip gritted his teeth in agony. He didn't dare look down at his leg to see what the damage was. The only reason he knew it was still there was because of all the pain it was causing, and any further than that.. he didn't want to see it._

_The deck vibrations stopped and Trip found himself staring at a pair of boots and a cane. He swallowed hard and lifted his head to look up. The Vulcan staring down at him had a weathered face and sharp features. Short black hair with specks of grey. He had the brown eyes of authority and intimidation._

_It only took him a moment to exam Trip before he nodded to the guards in approval. One of them grabbed Trip's arm and roughly pulled his sleeve up to expose more of his flesh. The other pressed something metal against the underside of his forearm. _

_Trip didn't bother to look at it to figure what it was. He was too quickly consumed by the pain and the smell of his burning skin. He screamed, and Jon started to call to him again._

"_Trip!"_

"Trip."

He suddenly flinched as Malcolm grabbed his arm, causing the Captain to let go immediately. Trip blinked, staring ahead into the small window in the door of the holding cell, then he looked back to Reed.

Malcolm frowned a little at him. "Are you awake?"

"What's wrong with you pinksin?" Shran demanded impatiently.

Swallowing hard, Trip looked back to the window. "It's nothin', I'm fine. But I need ta talk to him alone."

Shran tensed a little. "We had an agreement-…"

"It's a matter of security Shran! Do what the hell I say!" Trip shot back forcefully.

The Andorian's antennae stood straight up and even Malcolm looked mildly surprised. It certainly wasn't as if Trip was a terribly passive man, but it was an unusual place for it, at least from what Malcolm knew. There was usually a built up. Trip's face would get red and he'd clench his teeth—he was obvious about his anger. But with Trip zoning out and snapping…spacephobia.. Malcolm didn't know what to think. He was beginning to believe that maybe this was deeper than he initially thought.

Shran seemed offended at first, but then his antennae drooped a little and he nodded. "Let him in."

* * *

Trip waited until the door was closed before he looked down at the man inside. The prisoner was sitting on the ground, restrained by chains on his wrists and ankles. One side of his face was swollen and bruised green with only some of the evidence of Shran's interrogations. He found that he didn't pity the prisoner, in fact he was grateful to see that Shran had hurt him.

Under the bruises and dirt was the same weathered face etched with authority. Trip could never forget him. It even made his arm burn a little. It was a tremendous feeling of power to be standing over his former captor.

"What are you doin' here, Telemus?" he asked stiffly.

Telemus looked up at the man blankly, with no emotion on his face except a light of recognition. He carefully raised a pointed eyebrow. "You never expected to meet me again did you?"

"I oughta just save Shran the trouble an' kill you."

"I do not doubt that you would."

Trip clenched his fists for a moment. The lack of emotion was driving him crazy. He'd want nothing more than for Telemus to be on the ground at his feet and begging for his life. Instead, he only sat against the wall calmly.

"What were you doin' out here? Where's your ship?" he demanded.

Slowly Telemus drew in a deep breath and let it out evenly. "It is gone. I am harmless."

Trip narrowed his eyes a little. "What's that supposta mean?"

"I have been exiled." Looking up, he pulled his sleeve up to show the unusual brand on his forearm.

Frowning, Trip reached down and grabbed Telemus' wrist to look closer at it. He carefully knelt down to lessen the strain on his leg, and he pulled his own sleeve up quickly, turning his arm over to the brand on the underside. Briefly, his anger seemed to fade as he just tried to figure out the pieces of the puzzle.

"They're different," Trip stated. "How come they're different? It's your language, what do they mean?"

"Yours means prisoner," Telemus said quickly. "Mine is a death sentence; if I was to return to our space, I would be killed."

"What'd you do?"

He was quiet for a minute, and he pulled his sleeve down to cover the brand. "I disobeyed the Senate, and I allowed a prisoner to escape."

"A prisoner? Like you had a change 'a heart? I ain't buyin' that," Trip said, eyeing him suspiciously.

"What was going on was barbaric and I-.. I felt it was necessary to act and save the last one before he was killed too."

"What were you goina do to us?" Trip asked quickly.

Telemus watched him for a moment. Any information that he could give Shran would be useless to him. They both knew he had said nothing. This, to Trip, almost felt like the last confession of an old man. He wasn't entirely sure why Telemus was talking to him. Certainly Trip hadn't expected him to talk at all, and now that he was, it caught him off guard.

"Research," Telemus said quickly. "The Senate wished to know of humans. It was more that could be answered by simple questions, and advanced techniques had to be employed."

Trip's stomach twisted, and his chest clenched harder than it did when he actually went up in space. The images that his imagination came up with made the blood drain from his face. "You tortured them," he said shakily.

"I should have ended it earlier, and been able to save more. I wanted no part in this. We are not barbaric."

"But one got away, who? Where is he?"

"Archer," Telemus replied. "Jonathan Archer. I do not know where he went, only that I helped him to escape and live."

Trip almost felt dizzy. There was no way Jon was still alive. He couldn't have survived for those seven years on his own… but he was still partially stuck on the fact that it could have been him there. If he hadn't escaped from the ship.

Slowly he pushed himself to his feet, and Telemus looked up at him again. "Are you going to kill me now?" he asked calmly.

"No," Trip said, and took a deep breath. "We need you alive. You got information that we need. It'll be best for everyone that you cooperate with us."

He didn't give Telemus a chance to reply before he banged on the door to be let out. The door open and Trip stepped outside into the hallway, favoring his leg. Shran looked at him expectantly once the door clanged shut.

"Well? He spoke to you, what did he tell you? We had an _agreement_," Shran said, with both antennae pointing forward at Trip suspiciously.

Trip sighed softly. "He ain't any use to you, Shran. He ain't even a Vulcan. He's a Romulan, an' we need him."


	12. Chapter 12

I apologize for this taking so long, I'm in the midst of school exploding and getting ready to end and my fiction teacher decided to be a jerk and assign us MORE work on top of the already heavy load we have for his class. I'm not promising speedy updates for Christmas break, but I do have plans for the next few chapters, so that does help speed things along. I haven't abandon the story and I don't plan on it, I'm just a little slow in updating at the moment. Hope this is sufficient though. By the by, go check out kajexgrey's story Prometheus if you haven't already, it's awesome :D Also, this story broke the 50 page mark. Yay! It's a new record for me. And it's still going, this is a good sign. Hope you all enjoy it, please review.

Part 12

"A Romulan? I've never even heard of anyone seeing one, let alone capturing one." Adrmial Forrest leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, and then added. "You never revealed this in your debriefing after Morpheus. Care to explain why Commander?"

Trip rubbed his face with both hands. He looked tired and felt about the same—Forrest had already commented on it. "It weren't exactly an'easy topic at the time," he said with a sigh. "I din't keep it out ta hurt us."

"Maybe not, but how am I supposed to trust or believe you like this?"

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Trip.." Forrest shook his head. "If this gets out, especially to the Vulcans, you could be crucified. In this case, it's good for us that it's Gardner's project. Not even Soval will challenge him. I really need to know what else you know."

His face darkened a little. "You don't believe me."

"About the Romulan, yes. But face it Trip, I've put my career on the line to protect you and you don't even fully cooperate with me."

"Kinda hard to when Gardner's got his goons set to kidnap me!"

Forrest sighed, and waited a few moments before speaking sincerely. "I'm going to take care of that. Gardner's got no jurisdiction or right to do that. Though, honestly, I understand his reasons. The Andorians with a captured Vulcan, spy or not, could have lit our whole sector on fire, and you do obviously hold some sway with Shran. And in the end, it turned out even better. Right?"

"You still ain't believein' me, are you?"

"Trip, we've been over this…"

"No," he said sharply. "You don't. I didn't make this up, I ain't crazy!"

Forrest watched him calmly, waiting until he was done. "I know you've been through a lot, son. But you didn't tell us. We talked to you several times, the story never changed. You could be charged with treason for this. Why didn't you tell us?"

Trip swallowed hard. "I.. couldn't."

"How much did you leave out?"

"I ain't lyin' 'bout this."

"Trip, I never said you were," Forrest said, holding a hand up. "I need all the information. When you get back, we're going to talk and you're going to tell me everything. But right now, what did you find out from this.. Romulan?"

With a deep sigh, Trip looked exhausted again. He hated his situation, but there was really no way to escape it now. "I only talked to him once; he said they was studying us."

"Studying us?" Forrest asked hesitantly. "Physically studying us? And you weren't the only survivor?"

"I dunno, sir. I wasn't, I mean they took others, I-…" Trip trailed off for a moment. He clenched his hands to keep them from shaking. "I um.. didn't tell anyone 'cause I didn't think it was real 'til I saw him again. I think I just blocked it out. It weren't somethin' I wanted to remember."

"Okay. It's.. okay, son," Forrest said in a softer tone. "Just tell me what he said."

Normally, Trip hated when they started to baby him. Hoshi was the only one who really didn't, because she understood that wasn't what he needed. But now, he almost needed it to continue. "Uh.." he said, and swallowed to try to keep his voice steady. "They took some of us, I guess, 'fore they blew up the ship."

"You saw them?"

Trip nodded a little. "I think so. I don't remember them all… He says they're all dead. 'Cept that he was exiled for settin' one free. Jon Archer."

Forrest stared at him for a long time trying to comprehend the scope of what he had just been told. Not just Archer's name, but everything. "He set Archer free? How, where is he?"

"He doesn't know. Claims he shoulda done it sooner. I ain't even sure if the bastard's tellin' the truth."

"We'll deal with him when he gets here." Forrest paused for a moment, looking down at his desk. "But there is a chance."

"They tortured 'em," Trip said in a quiet voice. "He coulda been pretty much dead when he let him loose."

"But it is Jon." They were both quiet. Forrest was thinking, and Trip just watched.

"Okay," Forrest said at last, with a small nod. "When he gets here, we'll talk to him and see what else we can find out. But until we know, I don't want Erika to find out. She's leaving soon, she doesn't need to be distracted and looking for him when she's out there. That's not her assignment." Trip nodded in agreement before Forrest spoke again. "What does it look like? The Romulan?" he asked without too much immediately thought. Since if he had thought about it, Trip knew he'd find the answer, since the Andorians never considered him another race.

"Like a Vulcan, sir," Trip replied. "Pointy ears and green blood."

Forrest brought his folded hands up and extended his finger fingers to his lips. "Obviously this is classified and not for public knowledge. It wouldn't go well. They think a Vulcan planted the bomb on Enterprise."

"A Vulcan?" Trip said quickly in surprise. "That's what they got from security logs?"

"It's what it looks like. Soval is throwing a fit. But this is convenient information. If the Romulans are wanting to study us, I'm sure they're looking for weakness. They have to be planning to invade. That's disconcerting."

* * *

Jon stood out in the desert in the heavy Vulcan robes that were not his but fit him well. He looked up at the stately volcano, but he stayed where he was, turning back to look at T'Pol with a small smile to display his pleasure at being there.

She didn't smile back, but he didn't mind as she walked towards him. "Do you like it here?"

With another smile, he nodded.

T'Pol looked up at his green eyes. They stood on the same ground here. "You may speak with me."

"I am pleased here," he said. His voice was unrecognizable. T'Pol almost could not hear it, but she knew he spoke, and she heard his words.

"You look well in those robes."

"They are your father's, are they not?" he asked.

"Yes. They fit you, and they look natural. Perhaps you should remain here on Vulcan with me."

Jon looked back at her, watching her affectionately. "I trust you."

"As do I," she said softly.

"I do not wish to leave," Jon replied. "I prefer to stay with you."

She looked over at him and the corners of her lips moved slightly to match him. "That is agreeable." Pausing for a moment, she turned to face him, giving him her full attention. "Tell me where you come from."

"Where do all humans come from?" He looked up at the sky. "I come from the stars."

"But you were not born a slave."

"Perhaps not."

She met his eyes again. "Perhaps? Jon, would you permit me to see your memories?"

He looked back to the volcano to consider, but momentarily, he nodded. "Yes. I trust you."

T'Pol was pleased. Slowly she walked in front of him and raised her hands to meet his face, positioning her fingers carefully, then she closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of his skin under her fingertips.

"My mind to your mind," she said quietly. "My thoughts to your thoughts-…"

T'Pol woke in her quarters, staring at the wall across from her. The gentle scent of incense lingered still from her meditation the evening before. She must not have concentrated hard enough. Vulcans did not dream and it startled her to some degree. But on the other hand, she had been thinking of him frequently. Jon occupied her thoughts more than anyone else. Perhaps more than she was comfortable with.

Once she got up and dressed, she walked down the hall of her ship. Her agreement with Jaurrel was that she would stay with him if her ship could remain in orbit to serve as her residence. Staying with him would not only be improper, but she found the thought to be appalling.

Her ship was always quiet, mostly because it was full of Vulcans who tended to their duty quietly and without protest. It was extremely uncommon for a Vulcan ship to have foreign crewmembers. T'Pol wasn't an average Vulcan however. As she entered the infirmary, the atmosphere changed dramatically.

It smelled of animals, and she always found it to be physically lighter than the rest of the ship. The Denobulan doctor Phlox was making odd sounds as he checked on one of his various cages of strange animals. T'Pol clasped her hands behind her back. "Doctor, I require your assistance."

"Ah, Lady T'Pol!" Phlox said, facing her with a warm smile. "What can I do for you?"

She slowly approached the exam table, placing her hands on it. "I wish for you to scan my head."

"Very well. Do you have a headache?" he asked, walking over with a scanner. He brought it up and slowly began to scan her head. "Any dizziness or sensitivity to light? Or other symptoms?"

Drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, T'Pol stared straight ahead. "I had a dream."

Phlox blinked and glanced at the scanner, then at T'Pol. "A dream?"

"Vulcans do not dream, doctor," she replied quickly.

"Of course not." He placed the scanner aside. "Your brain activity is slightly elevated, but this is expected if you are concentrating on the dream. Can you tell me what you dreamt about?"

"You are here to assure that myself and my crew are physically fit for duty," she replied evenly.

Anyone not used to being and living around Vulcans would likely have been offended, but Phlox just smiled. He knew she didn't mean to offend, just state fact. "Yes, but I hold seven doctorate degrees from Denobula, including the science of the mind. Either way, it may help you to speak of it."

She stared at him for a long time before she pushed herself up to sit on the exam table. For a few moments, she stared down at her slender hands. Vulcans did not dream. She felt wrong about this. But Vulcans did not feel either.

"My dream was about a slave," she said quietly. "A human player owned by Zane."

Phlox pulled a rolling stool over and sat down across from her, placing his feet on the highest wrung so that he could lean his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands, to prepare to listen. He looked rather comical, or would have if T'Pol could view him as such, and also eager to help. "Does something about this slave strike you?"

"Yes. He is human. There are no humans to play in the tournament. We met, briefly. He does not speak. However, he did in my dream."

"What happened in your dream?"

She sighed. "I do not see how this is helping."

"We've only just started!" Phlox said happily. "It takes time to help, tell me about your dream T'Pol."

For a few moments, she was quiet, but then she began speaking again in an even voice. "We were on Vulcan. We spoke. He wished to stay with me. Then I began to meld with him. This is when I woke."

"Perhaps you wish to know more about him, do you?" he asked curiously, and she nodded in agreement. "What did you speak of?"

T'Pol sighed again in mild protest. "He was wearing my father's robes, we spoke of it. He also told me that he liked being on Vulcan with me, that he trusted me, and then he agreed to the meld."

Phlox narrowed his eyes in thought and pressed his lips together. "That is very curious. Do you think of him often?"

"Frequently," she admitted with some reluctance. "He is only a slave."

"But he is a human too, and he is a living being. Does he trust you?" Phlox asked after a moment.

T'Pol raised an eyebrow at him in slight surprise. "I do not know, he does not speak." Slowly she slid off of the exam table. "It was a dream, they are insignificant. I need to concentrate harder with my meditation."

"Are you saying this only because you are hearing what you don't want to hear?" Phlox asked gently. "Certainly when you first came to me, the dream had upset you."

"Vulcans do not become upset, doctor. I am fine now."

He looked at her for a long moment, and then he smiled a little. "Very well. Please come see me if there is anything else."

"Of course, doctor." She nodded her head to him. "Good day."

* * *

"Trip!"

As soon as she saw him come out of the shuttlepod, Hoshi ran over and practically jumped in his arms. Fortunately for Trip, Hoshi's feet stayed on the ground, but she hugged him tightly.

He stepped back a little as she plowed into him to keep the weight off of his bad leg. But he was more than glad to see her. He couldn't even describe how relieved he felt to have his feet on solid ground again instead of the hum of the warp engine underneath him. It was such that he even noticed the pain lessening in his leg.

"I missed you so much," Trip said. His hands gripped handfuls of the back of her shirt.

Hoshi pulled back a little and kissed him, not wanting to give him up again. If Malcolm, or even Admiral Gardner, tried to take him back, they would find much more resistance than a slap in the face.

"You're home, you're safe," she said, and smiled bravely at him. "Let's go home, we don't have to stay here."

Nodding slightly, Trip didn't let go. For now, just standing on the ground with her in his arms, he wasn't scared anymore. He looked over her shoulder to see Dax Carnahan escorting Telemus toward the local transport from the shuttle. The prisoner's hands were bound, making him have to walk in a short, awkward gait because he had to hold his cane in the middle with both hands. There was pain on his face, having to bear more weight than he should on his bad leg. Trip felt his own leg throb in response and he shifted his weight off of it.

"Yeah, let's go.." Trip said quietly, and pulled back from her.

Admiral Gardner looked over at them with a frown, and he took a few steps closer, closing the distance between them. "Wait just a moment. You're not going anywhere, Tucker, I need you here."

Swallowing hard, Trip looked to Hoshi, who looked significantly angry. She broke a man's arm once over a poker game, she wasn't helpless or unwilling to defend. Gardner however was also an impressive force. People who crossed him, even non-humans, tended to disappear and no one ever questioned it.

"We're going home," Hoshi said stubbornly.

"No. He needs to be with us while interrogating the prisoner. He's the only one with real experience in this area."

Hoshi narrowed her eyes. "You kidnapped my boyfriend. Interrogate your own prisoner."

"Sir, let them go home. With respect, it's been a long journey back. This can wait until later," Malcolm said, standing beside Trip with his hands clasped behind his back.

Gardner looked back at him sharply. No one had noticed his approach, and certainly none of them thought Malcolm would side with Trip and Hoshi. Especially since Malcolm Reed's role was as Gardner's puppet. The Admiral's face darkened like a cloud passed over him and was about to rain.

With the tension between all of them, Trip's chest started to tighten in response. Sometimes he still had dreams of blank faces and pointed ears. He ever so often even had flashbacks before his eyes in daylight, like the one when he first saw Telemus in Shran's holding cell. Trip saw Gardner with pointed ears. Malcolm too. The only one who didn't appear to be as threatening was Telemus—because he limped too.

Stiffening a little, Gardner narrowed his eyes, watching him carefully. Trip didn't know (or particularly care at the moment) if Gardner knew what he was seeing. What Trip could see.

"Fine," the Admiral stated, still maintaining the authority as if it was his idea. "Go home, Tucker. But we'll be calling on you later." He turned and walked off, finished with the conversation.

With a sigh, Malcolm looked back to the pair, but the only response he received was a warning glare from Hoshi. "I.. wanted to apologize. I had my orders, that was all." His scarred face betrayed nothing. No real emotions or remorse, just his permanent stoic nature. And pointed ears.

Hoshi glared back at him, as if she could see it too. But Trip knew she couldn't. "Don't come to our apartment again. You're not welcome in our home," she said acidly.

A brief smile crossed his face. "I wouldn't presume that I would be." He quickly glanced down at the alien pendant he had given her, still hanging around her neck. He said nothing about it, and neither did she.

Turning back to Trip, Hoshi grasped his rough hand and squeezed it gently. "Come on, babe, let's go home. Finally."

For a moment, Trip didn't answer. He was too focused on Telemus, who looked over his shoulder at Trip before DAx pushed him onto the transport. The look wasn't aggressive or angry, or even miserable. It was calm; accepting. Practically emotionless. Vulcan-like.

"Trip? Are you ok?" Hoshi asked, looking at him with a knit brow.

He blinked, and looked back at her in slight confusion, drawn out of his trance. "Uh.. yeah," he said carefully. "I'm fine. We oughta go before they change their minds though."

She kissed him on the cheek, and then tugged on his hand as she led him away. Trip looked over his shoulder at the transport once more before he limped off.


	13. Chapter 13

Wow. So apparently I'm productive. But I did write most of this in um classes. And between finals. So there you go. I've got sinister plans incoming. But maybe not coming super soon. I've got no idea, this is long and complicated and I'm surprised that I'm keeping track as well as I am at this point. So we'll see. Sinister at some point. Please review, it makes me write faster (hopefully). Enjoy :D

Part 13

Jaurrel stood back to watch at T'Pol on the edge of the slave compound. This would certainly not be a place he would have expected to find her. She had never, as far as he knew, been interested in slaves. Granted she had her servants. Selar was her personal servant, and Mertil… the ever-present Mertil, who was strangely absent. But that was all.

Slowly, he began to approach her. Many of the slaves were out in the dusty courtyard. The human was among them, within a group of Unas. He was sitting on the ground while an Unas child was climbing on top of him. Jaurrel couldn't understand how or why the human was drawn to the Unas. They were disgusting creatures. But they were all undesirables, including the human.

"You have been avoiding me, T'Pol," Jaurrel said evenly, standing next to her, clasping his hands behind his back.

T'Pol stiffened a little. "If I had wished for your presence, I would not be here. Yes, I am avoiding you."

"When we are wed, then you will not be able to avoid me forever."

She turned her head away from him, and Jaurrel narrowed his eyes at her. "You are not going to avoid me. We are betrothed and we will be married. It is what is expected of us."

"I wish to break our betrothal. It is not agreeable to me," she said sharply.

"That is irrelevant. Whether or not you agree with our union is not logical."

"It should be." T'Pol looked out at the slaves again.

Jaurrel grabbed her arm. "I sense emotion in you. We are going to be married. Here forcibly, or traditionally on Vulcan."

He could feel her muscles tense under his hand and she tried to pull away, but he held on tighter until a flicker of pain registered on her face.

"No," she said quickly. "Release me. I will call for the _kal-if-fee_."

"And who will you choose to challenge?"

"I will find someone. I do not wish to marry you."

Jaurrel pulled her a little closer. "The human? Is that who you will choose? Is that why you stand out here?"

Drawing in a deep breath, T'Pol lifted her chin slightly. "Release me. Now you are the one who is emotional. Jealous is illogical."

"I am not jealous of a human slave," Jaurrel replied, bringing the words forward with malice from the back of his throat. "If you desire him I am certain that Zane would oblige you."

She pulled her arm away from him quickly. "You are disgusting and displeasing. I refused to be treated this way."

Jon looked up from playing with the Unas child to see T'Pol and the other Vulcan with her. He had known of T'Pol's presence. She often brought him food, or sometimes she stood to watch. Occasionally she would approach and speak to him. Unlike most others, T'Pol spoke to him, not about him, and she didn't treat him as if his presence was wasting her time. She wanted to be there.

When the other Vulcan grabbed her again, Jon stood up and began to walk over to them. He didn't know the male, but Jon didn't like him already. Especially not holding onto T'Pol's arms as he was.

Salt and Pepper were present nearby, but occupied in a game that consisted of trying to throw a knife into the ground so that it would stick up. Neither of them were very successful. But Jon knew that the distracted provided him with an opportunity. As soon as he was close enough, he grabbed Jaurrel and pulled him back roughly from T'Pol.

"Jon, no!" T'Pol said sternly, but she made no move to interfere. She had not anticipated Jon defending her in any respect and she thought that perhaps he would be a formidable opponent for Jaurrel. Vulcans were stronger than humans, and Jon was a tournament player. If anyone could face a bring such as Jaurrel, it would be him.

Jaurrel was less than pleased. He stumbled back against Jon, struggling to keep his footing. Once he knew what was happening, he broke free from Jon's grasp and turned back to strike him.

"You pathetic slave; you will pay for that," he growled in an uncharacteristic rage, at least for a Vulcan.

Jon knew better than to fight back, despite that he was the one to initiate the fight. To draw blood on a being of status was to be killed. Jaurrel easily pushed Jon on the ground, but T'Pol grabbed his arm to hold him back.

"Leave him alone," she said icily.

He yanked his arm away from her, narrowing his eyes, then he glanced down at Jon to make sure that he remained on the ground. "Zane is taking him to Lythia for a tournament. You will accompany us on Zane's ship."

"No," T'Pol said sharply. "I will take my own ship."

Clenching his jaw, Jaurrel grabbed her arm harshly, holding onto it tightly. "You will travel with us." He let go and turned to walk off.

For a moment, T'Pol stood where she was, then she looked down at Jon who was getting to his feet and she reached down to help him. Jon tensed at first, looking at her with wide green eyes. He was searching her face for something. But, swallowing hard, he got to his feet, still holding onto her hand.

"You should not interfere with him" she said softly.

Jon knit his brow in concern and confusion, but then he lowered his head and reluctantly let go of her hand.

She sighed. "I am not upset with you, Jon. Vulcans do not become upset."

Biting his lip, he slowly looked up at her—cautiously at first, but then a faint playful smile began to emerge. T'Pol felt more at ease. She reached down for his hand. "But.. thank you. Do not concern yourself with Jaurrel. I do not wish for you to be harmed because of him."

Slowly, he nodded a little and he started to tug on her hand to follow him further into the courtyard.

* * *

_- What is your full name?_

_- Commander Lord Telemus, son of Troilus._

_- What rank is commander?_

_- Commander denotes the rank required to command a starship, one rank below Admiral._

_- And "lord"?_

_- The title lord is in respect to wealth, property and personal and family achievement. I believe this distinction exists in other cultures as well. My father was a lord, and I earned the title through military achievements._

_- What achievements are those?_

_- I commanded five starships in a period of sixity years and I was awarded multiple times by the Praetor._

_- How old are you?_

_- One hundred seven years._

_- Who is the Praetor?_

_- He is the head of the Senate and leader of the Romulan Empire._

_- You consider yourselves an Empire?_

_- Yes. As do humans._

_- You are cooperating with us well._

_- I have no reason to lie._

_- Why not? Aren't you loyal to your people?_

_- I was exiled. _He paused. _The Senate was conducting their affairs with methods and tactics which I was morally against._

_- Why were you exiled?_

_- I released a prisoner from custody to prevent his death._

_- Was the prisoner human?_

_- Yes._

_- How long ago was this?_

_- Five years._

_- Were you exiled immediately?_

_- No. I was imprisoned and tried before the Senate for two years. Then I was exiled. If I was to return, I would be executed._

_- Who was the prisoner that you released?_

_- His Earth-name was Jonathan Archer._

_- What was his name to you?_

_- Dha. It means 'ten'._

_- Did you destroy Morpheus?_

_- My orders were to infiltrate and acquire human prisoners. I did not destroy the ship. It was weakened and another ship took advantage of it. I was unfamiliar with the other attacker, but the ship was modified and showed ruthless tactics—pirates I believe is their common name here. We retained a survivor after the human ship was destroyed. However, he was too damaged for our use and I released him._

_- Commander Tucker?_

_- Yes. We did not always record names. I assume that this is the same man._

_- How many humans did you take?_

_- Fifteen. Ten males, five females._

_- Why did you take them?_

_- By order of the Praetor and Senate for study._

_- How did you study these.. prisoners?_

_- I was involved very little in the actual study, it was only my duty to oversee the placement and security of the prisoners. Our scientists measured physical, emotional and mental endurance, cognitive function, physical function and weakness, susceptibility to disease as well as extreme elements._

_- What happened to them?_

_- They died. The deaths began slowly but continued steadily until Dha was the only one remaining. He was initially ruled out from some of the more aggressive tests because after a trial, he became ill. The scientists required the subjects to be in the best physical form possible for the best results._

* * *

Malcolm preferred the view of the stars out of the window. Any window; and hopefully all of them. There had been a time when he wished to see only land. The sea never held his attention for reasons he discussed with no one.

Upon reflection, he and Trip were more alike than he chose to let on. Trip Tucker was afraid of space, and Malcolm Reed was terrified of water. It wasn't good for a Captain to ever disclose his fears. No one on the Helos knew. But he wasn't standing on the harsh deckplating of Helos anyway; instead it was the quiet carpeted ready room of Erika's Enterprise.

The stars were stationary outside of the window, and they would remain that way for another few weeks while the warp engine was being repaired. The repair crews had made vast strides towards the goal of the launch-date. Last time Malcolm had been on the ship, it had smelled like smoke that he could only imagine was toxic in many ways they didn't know about. The risks of harnessing a power that they had yet to fully understand.

A part of him still reflected on the recent events with the Romulan. Gardner was wrong to have forced Trip to go. They were his friends, and Hoshi-…well, Hoshi. She hated him now of course. She had every right to. He was also sure that after that, Trip would certainly never set foot on a ship again. He had shattered their friendship because of duty. Orders came first.

There was still some regret, and he had mixed feelings about it. Malcolm didn't know if he should be regretting following orders. There were many things worse than breaking a friendship that he had committed and never gave a second thought to, let alone regret.

But perhaps some of Trip's fear and actions were justified with the discovery of the Romulan. Then there was Archer. Malcolm didn't know the man—they had never met. He knew of his father, everyone did, and he knew of him by name, just as another of Trip's friends. Now for the most part, he was simply grouped with the rest of the Morpheus crew as just another of the dead. When this got out, if it ever did, then he would be in another category. Trip would have to share his survivor status.

He started to wonder how much the stars outside the window changed people. Certainly he was not blind enough to notice his own change. Trip's change was much more dramatic. Earth did not have a positive record of space as far as the general public knew. Malcolm considered his missions successful, but he knew that others might not. Many people didn't consider death on either side to be incorporated by success.

But maybe it wasn't just space that changed people. Maybe even space was the safest place. With the information given to them by the Romulan, they were already under their threat. As far as Malcolm was concerned, the Romulans were the least of their concerns. There were much more sinister dealings coming from other sources. Coming from Earth.

He looked up as the door slid open and Erika walked in. She wore the blue uniform of Starfleet, which separated them by a matter of black versus blue. She took orders from the Supreme Chancellor of Earth and his delegates and Admirals. Malcolm took orders from Admiral Gardner alone.

"Captain Reed, it's a pleasure to see you," she said with a polite smile, extending her hand.

Malcolm lifted his chin a little, but he matched her politeness and shook her hand. Her grip was solid and strong, and he noted by the look behind her smile that she wasn't sure what to make of him being there. Maybe she didn't even like it. "Captain Hernandez. I see that your ship is looking well again."

She nodded in response, withdrawing her hand and clasping both of them behind her back. "The repair crews have been working double-shifts. It's certainly paid off. We may even be ready before our launch-date."

"Indeed. It is good of you to be prepared ahead of time."

Erika shifted a little on her feet and gave him a tight smile. "Forgive me, Captain. I appreciate the security measure that you helped with after the bombing, but why are you here now?"

Sighing softly, he looked out at the stars with an air of superiority. He knew what was out there. She didn't. "My ship will be accompanying you after you launch for the first three months. Admiral Gardner has expressed his desire to make sure that Enterprise knows how to handle herself."

"I really don't think that's necessary. I'll talk to the Admiral myself if I have to, but we don't need you to escort us anywhere." She folded her arms instead. "That's sort of the point that we have our own ship with our own technology, instead of a secret ship with stolen engines that no one knows about. This is Earth's ship. We can handle ourselves."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow and looked back at her in surprise. Most people would have backed down at the mention of Gardner's orders. Some were even intimidated by Malcolm himself. "I don't doubt it, Captain, but my orders still stand. This is a courtesy to tell you." He turned to face her full on. "I am also here to inform you of some classified information which has only recently been brought to light. We have captured a Romulan, who has given us an insight into the Morpheus incident. Believe me, I have no desire for such mundane duty as escorting your ship during the first leg of her mission."

"A Romulan? No one was even certain that they existed. When was I supposed to get this information?" she asked quickly, managing to be both surprised and annoyed at the same time.

"You are receiving the information now, when it is necessary," he replied simply.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What did you find out about Morpheus?"

"They took several humans to study. This means that they are likely planning some sort of invasion, and the prisoner indicated as such. They look like Vulcans, but he expressed that it is unlikely to ever run across one unless they are determined. We are still in the process of extracting information from him."

Erika slowly unfolded her arms. He thought for a brief moment that she looked a little ill, but she recovered and remained stoic, if not still a little annoyed. "What about the humans that they took? Any survivors?"

Malcolm watched her for a moment without a response. She was perceptive. He was aware of her relationship with Archer. It made the fact that she was going out into space that much more difficult. "No survivors." He stiffened a little, returning to business. "You are going to receive a compliment of Marines. I will also be conducting several battle drills with your crew. They need to be ready to fight."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I already told them, Enterprise doesn't need all these weapons. The less weapons we have, the less of a threat we are."

He started to smile at her. "If that is the way that you view this, then you will be sorely mistaken once we leave the confines of our solar system, Captain Hernandez."

* * *

_- How were you able to survive so long outside of your.. Empire without being discovered?_

_- I have been here before. I lived here for sometime._

_- You lived where?_

_- On Vulcan._

_- But you're a Romulan. _

_- Our species are distant cousins. We evolved from the same race and separated. _

_- What were you doing there?_

_- I was chosen by the Senate to infiltrate Vulcan and remain there to gather intelligence._

_- How long ago was this?_

_- Over sixty years ago._

_- What was your cover?_

_- I was a technical warp engineer at the training institute of the Vulcan High Command._

_- Did they find out your identity?_

_- No. I was recalled before I was discovered._

_- Are there still any of your people spying on Vulcan?_

_- It is likely. I do not know of any specific agents._


	14. Chapter 14

I'm not.. um.. responsible for the stuff happening in this chapter. Totally not my fault. You'll see. Anyway, this is kind of Tournament details and some other stuff, next chapter will be back to the plot-y things and we'll see how that goes. Please review, it's always appreciated, encouraging, and helps me write faster. Thanks, enjoy.

* * *

Part 14

The world of Lythia had once been a prosperous industrial planet under the far reach of the Liandri Mining Corporation. Despite their name, Liandri did much more than just mining. They were easily the largest and most wealthy corporation in the known systems. Lythia had been a steadily productive planet, producing various metals in various states, most of which were mined from the rich Lythian underground. It was populated by Lythians who showed aptitude for business and not much else. Including security.

When pirates invaded in a rare show of cooperation, it was too late by the time that the core of Liandri heard of the attack. The planet was devastated; casualties were extreme and it would take more time and money than Liandri was interested in to rebuild. Instead the entire planet was dedicated to Liandri's new interest in the bloody beginnings of the Grand Galactic Tournament.

Metal plants were left as they were to house deathmatches. Quarries and mines were given small changes to be used for team matches. Most everything was left in the half-destroyed way that it was after the attack, and the planet gained a reputation as having the most physically dangerous arenas. As the popularity of the Tournament grew and profits increased, Liandri built training areas and areas for on-world spectators to watch the matches.

Jon had been to Lythia three times to his memory. The second time, he had nearly lost an arm in one of the metal factories. The third time, the match was forfeited because part of the building collapsed, killing most of the players and a few arena guards. The match was called as a draw.

With the space of over a year since he had last been there, Jon still recognized the smell as soon as they were transported into one of the old factory shells. They all smelled of old dust and death, and remains of metal workings. Jon recoiled from the sharp smell at first. The paused saved him, as the inexperienced player nearby was killed immediately from a rocket that impacted his head. Not much was left.

He ducked and rolled away, picking up a high-powered rifle that shot chunks of molten shrapnel. He knew the Liandri's weapons by sight, and he knew which ones he was proficient at and which ones he preferred. But he had no idea what they were actually called.

Zane had given him boots before the match. While he cared little for Jon's thoughts, feelings or desires, he did care about his investment, and if Jon died, he would lose money. The crumbling floor and platforms of the factory were obviously no place for bare feet, but Jon didn't like the sound of the boots as he ran. They were too loud. He couldn't feel or grip the floor with them and he had had little time to adjust.

Once, during the introduction to a match, as the players were paraded in front of the on-world audience like beasts, Jon heard the announcer call him one of the best adaptive players he had ever seen. The announcers made projections and stated their opinions of players based on other matches. Jon really had no idea what other people thought of him. He didn't know much about the Tournament, other than what he had seen and what little he had heard from others.

He did adapt though. Without adaptation, there was death, and death scared him because it was unknown. If he continued in this life, he knew that someday he would die whether he was ready or not. And if he was ready, then it would mean that he would view death as a better alternative to the life of a slave. But he hadn't reached that level yet, he was still pressing to survive, even if he didn't know what he was surviving for.

Before him were a small collection of rusted carts that had been used to move materials from one end of the factory to another, laying beside a still conveyor belt. They were tall, nearly taller than him. But once on top, Jon could reach an upper walkway, and then he could move around easier. Height was a valuable asset.

He grabbed the edge of one of the turned over carts and tried to pull himself up with his arms, and when he was high enough, he brought his foot up against the side of the cart. The boot didn't hold to the rough material as his skin would have, and he slipped, banging his head on the side of it on the way down. Jon landed on his back, staring up at a dark ceiling with his ears ringing

For a moment, he didn't move, just laying still. His chest was heaving and he could feel his heart pounding up in his neck as the adrenaline surged through his body. Something wet was dripping down the side of his face that he could only imagine was blood, because rust didn't drip.

At first, he didn't hear the footsteps coming towards him, but he started to feel it through the metallic ground. He looked around quickly and held onto the rifle tighter. It was coming quicker than he could get up. As he caught a glimmer of motion out of the corner of his eye, Jon raised the rifle up and fired. Shrapnel tore through the other body from the close impact when the other player had turned the corner to find him there, and Jon distinctly heard the thud. He slowly pushed himself to sit up and waited until the air stopped spinning before he looked.

He felt nothing for the dead player. He took the energy weapon that it had been carrying and slung the rifle over his shoulder. He didn't even think anything of the encounter, except that he needed to get moving and he shouldn't have let himself fall.

Jon grabbed the edge of the cart and pulled himself up, and placed his foot flat on the top before he got up all the way. Then he jumped and grabbed the edge of the walkway and pulled himself up again. He held onto the energy rifle and crouched down as he jogged along the upper walkway, with every nerve in his body trying to sense if anyone was close.

* * *

As the creature jumped on Jon's back, the walkway broke from the stress of the blow and they both fell down to the dusty ground. With a snarl, the creature tried to grab Jon by his shirt to pull him back, but the fabric gave and the creature's claws raked down Jon's bruised back.

It was some kind of reptilian that walked on two legs with dirty yellow claws and dull pointed teeth that were stained from eating raw meat. It seemed to primarily fought in close quarters with no additional weapons other than its thick claws, which meant that it was probably some kind of hybrid to make something dangerous into something that could kill players in a tournament arena.

The creature pulled Jon back by his shoulders, but Jon kicked its knee, making the creature fall and then scramble after him again. He had participating in a few games where creatures that lacked higher intelligence were used in mass quantities as alien invaders. Sometimes it was to recreate some kind of battle that had occurred long ago, which Jon had never heard of. The history of the galaxy was not his history. In fact, he was certain that his history didn't even exist on Earth anymore.

It smelled horrible. The Unas had a certain smell associated with their rough skin and their heavy workload—their sweat carried a certain and recognizable scent. Jon could always recognize an Unas. But it didn't reek as the creature did, which smelled putrid like a rotting beast. The creature's thick hide seemed impossible to penetrate with what ever Jon could obtain from the ground. There were stones and sharp pieces of metal around them, but none of them were able to poke through the creature's skin, only enraging it further.

Grabbing Jon's leg, it pulled him back and slammed Jon's head on the ground. He felt cornered and helpless laying on his stomach suddenly, even after the blow that temporarily left him stunned. Jon squirmed and fought desperately against the creature's grasp as its hands tightened around his shoulders. One hand reached up and grabbed a handful of Jon's hair to pull his head back and expose his neck. Jon kicked at it again, but he couldn't get a firm foothold to be able to cause any damage.

He had tracked the creature for a long time through the arena as it hunted the other players, and he had seen it kill. It wouldn't be a quick death. Jon's heart was racing up in his throat, threatening to choke him. He couldn't die like this; the end couldn't come in the form of being ripped apart by some kind of creature that someone made in the arena.

Jon grabbed one of the creature's arms and pulled it off balance, but it wasn't deterred for long, and it grabbed the back of his neck, applying pressure. His chest was heaving, and as suddenly as it had come, the pressure stopped and the creature's grip fell loose with the sound of a blast canon.

The entire weight of the creature fell on top of him with a hard blow and Jon stayed still for a moment before he started to pull himself out from under it, kicking at the dead creature to get it off. Someone else had killed it, but he thought everyone else was dead. Who was alive? Who saved him? He grabbed his gun that had fallen out of his reach and flipped around to face behind him, where the blast shot came from.

The warrior was one he had seen before, but had never fought. In fact, the warrior was one of the few who paid their own way into the tournament instead of using sponsors. Jon thought they were foolish; who would want to risk their own lives with inevitable death when they were not forced to.

Raising his blast canon, the warrior looked down at Jon. It was difficult to see what he was thinking—his eyes were covered by dark lenses that rested on the bridge of his nose and were held in place by pieces that went behind his ears. A mask rested just below the dark glasses and covered his nose and mouth and the rest of his face. It had breathing holes, but it was connected to the rest of his suit. To Jon's ears, the warrior's breathing sounded mechanical and unnatural, sort of like Lythia.

"We're done fighting, get up," the warrior said, sounding as bored as the computerized voicebox could manage.

Jon hesitated slightly and got to his feet slowly, watching the warrior closely. Only once the warrior dropped his weapon did Jon follow, leaving his energy rifle behind.

Lifting his head a little, the warrior took a few steps closer to Jon, who could feel himself being examined by the eyes behind the dark glasses. "You are Jon," he said. "I am going to speak to your sponsor. I have a proposition for him."

The announcer overhead spoke distantly; "_Stark has called a draw._"

* * *

Stark, among with other heroes of the Tournament, needed no introduction and anyone who followed the games at all knew of him. However, it was somewhat rare to see Stark fighting in a Deathmatch as his specialty was the team circuit. Stark's team was undefeated and the man himself was even more of a legend.

Teams primarily consisted of one race. The Klingon team was particularly ruthless. The Flron team was considered especially challenging due to their ability to Flron's ability to change their appearance. However, when Stark's team, Ka'la'c Eileo, first appeared on the regular circuit, they weren't taken seriously because it was of mixed blood, and none of the members of the team were of the same race.

With Ka'la'c Eileo's success, Stark's reputation grew as an exceptional player and captain. It was also well known that Stark bought his way into the Tournament, financed the team himself, and when he had his eye on something—a new player to add to his team—Stark always got what he wanted.

Zane had never met Stark, but naturally he had heard of him, and when he saw his name on the roster for the match, he also felt confident that Jon would still win. The draw had been an enraging surprise, and Zane paced outside of the private box that he had used to observe the match while waiting for Jon to be returned. T'Pol and Jaurrel stood nearby, looking stately and out of place in their Vulcan robes.

T'Pol disliked the Tournament even more now that she had come to know Jon. She, of course, felt nothing. When Jon was cornered by a psychotic criminal sentenced to fight for his crimes, she felt nothing, but her hands tightened on the arm rests as she watched. Vulcans did not become attached, and certainly not to humans, or slaves. But she found the Tournament even more illogical now than she had before.

She felt herself straighten a little as Salt and Pepper approached with Jon walking between them. The restraining collar was fastened around his neck and Salt walked with his hand around Jon's elbow to guide him, but Jon didn't look like he'd put up much resistance. His clothes were dirty, bloodstained and ripped, and his face looked a few shades paler. Sweat plastered his hair against his forehead. His eyes were cast down on the floor.

As they came closer, Zane stopped pacing and he walked over to meet them, immediately striking Jon across the face. "You were supposed to kill him, not lay there on the floor and surrender!" he bellowed.

Jon stumbled and Salt held him up slightly, glancing at Zane, whose pale eyes narrowed darkly.

Stark's boots clunked on the ground as he walked towards them, drawing Zane's attention to the small group approaching them with Stark at its head. "You shouldn't punish him for doing the right thing," Stark said evenly; the mechanical voicebox sounding intimidating on principle alone.

Straightening a little, Zane took a step to the side around Jon to look over at Stark with the same degree of hostility that he had used against Jon. "This is none of your concern," he said icily. "What are you doing here?"

"I came here to speak with you," Stark said easily. "I want to purchase your… slave."

Jon glanced over at T'Pol, watching her body tense a little. But Zane's reaction was much more electric, as if his body was radiating anger at the request. His eyes darkened and the corner of his upper lip twitched as he stared back at his opponent.

Stark was an imposing figure certainly outside of the arena as well. He didn't wear his armor—he didn't really need to. The jacket and gloves that he wore covered obvious markers that would have otherwise been seen. Jon recalled his arms being more metal than flesh from what he had seen in the area, and one leg was entirely mechanical. It all fit, because of the mask over his nose and mouth, and the dark glasses that shielded his eyes. Jon feared cyborgs even more sometimes because mechanical parts didn't feel pain or fatigue.

A tight smile crossed Zane's lips. "He's not for sale."

"I don't think you understand me," Stark replied. He reached up to take off the dark glasses and rubbed them against his sleeve to clean them off, looking down at Zane with one bloodshot eye and one that was entirely grey except for a dot of red in the middle where the visual information was taken in to be processed into sight.

One of the men accompanying him, a tall, bald man with tribal markings on half of his face, stepped forward to stand beside Stark. "We are willing to offer you a significant amount of credits for him," the bald man said calmly.

"He's not for sale, I just said that, and certainly not to you," Zane replied. The initial anger was gone and replaced by an icy coldness that sealed all of Zane's business transactions.

"You could be making a lot of money with him. Perhaps I'll make an exception." Stark folded his arms and looked over at Jon with the mis-matched eyes. "Slavery is barbaric, but he will remain yours as long as he fights for my team and then you will receive some of the profit from our winnings."

Zane laughed bitterly. "He could never play for a team, he doesn't talk, and he doesn't cooperate. He's a beast! You can't tame him."

Stark narrowed his eyes and his breathing was audible through the mask, sounding more like a pump than a living body. "You would be surprised. His vocal chords are not an issue."

"You can't have him, he's mine." Zane looked over at Salt and Pepper and nodded with his head. "We're leaving, take him back to the ship," he said, and charged ahead, purposefully pushing past the bald man.

Jon swallowed hard, squirming under the heat of Stark's gaze, as if he could feel the output of the mechanical eye. He didn't have much time to suffer under it as Salt pulled him forward. He glanced back at T'Pol to see if she was following.

At first, she started to, but Stark held out his hand to stop her. "Wait. You are Vulcan. I understand that your people don't like these games."

T'Pol stood up to face him calmly. "My people do not. What interest do you hold in Jon?"

He raised a dark eyebrow at her. "What interest do you hold in him?"

At first, T'Pol had wondered about Zane's instant dislike to Stark, other than the man wanting to purchase Zane's prize-winning player from him. She wondered if anyone liked this man Stark at all. But she found him to be…fair. Especially as he seemed to disapprove of slavery.

"I must go with them," T'Pol said, starting to walk past him.

Stark turned to face her. "Vulcan. He would have a better life with me. No one should be forced to fight. There are no prisoners here. They only follow me because they know it's right."

Pausing for a moment, T'Pol turned back to look at him. "You act as though you have the power to do anything."

"Who says that I don't. I've given life to the dying. Consider it."


	15. Chapter 15

First of all, I want to apologize for the long delay in this update. I was running short on motivation, however I do PROMISE I am not giving up on this story as long as you readers don't give up on me. Believe me I've got plenty of ideas on where this is going. Having the time to sit down and write it sometimes is another matter, but I do plan on seeing this so much farther than it is right now. So, thank you for those of you who stuck around, I really, really appreciate it. Parts of this, naturally, are influenced by new Trek movie (awesomeness) which also helped to revive my motivation :D And many thanks to kajexgrey for also not giving up on me. I hope you enjoy this part, and more action next time! Please review, also helps with that motivating factor. :)

* * *

Part 15

Telemus was left alone for long periods of time in his cell to cope with his most recent pain. He never wished for death; pain was something to live with and it meant there was life left. He had endured pain his entire life and he had experienced worse during his long years.

It was only a matter of time he imagined before Gardner and his men extracted all of the information they were looking for, though Telemus was more cooperative than they were willing to believe. Or they simply wished to take their aggression out on a living subject. He imagined it was a mixture of both.

He looked up at the small monitoring device in the corner of the cell. They would be foolish to leave him unobserved, but at the same time, he was harmless. The red light of the monitor was all that kept him company during the long dark nights.

The forcefield deactivated and Telemus looked up, expecting to find the guard bringing him food, but instead he was faced with the image of the captain who brought him here, in the black uniform. Telemus raised a pointed eyebrow at him. "Captain Reed."

Malcolm walked in further and clasped his hands behind his back. His face was distinctly unreadable, which Telemus noted with respect--an attribute beneficial to a captain of a starship and not always found in humans he had met. Telemus didn't stand up from his position on the floor--it would be difficult without his cane. He only nodded a little. "What can I do for you?"

"I've come to offer you a choice and I think I know what you will choose, at least if you're wise," Malcolm said, crouching down in front of him. He had a hard time viewing Telemus as anything other than a helpless man, but he knew it would be a mistake to think that.

Malcolm rocked back on his heels a little. "Enterprise is launching soon; my ship will accompany them on the first leg of their journey," he said evenly. "I want you to come with us."

"I am an enemy prisoner, that is unwise," Telemus replied.

"You'll be in the brig, not on the bridge," Malcolm said, narrowing his eyes a little. "My men know how to handle a prisoner."

"Do they? That is good. What is my choice?"

"Come with me or stay here to be executed for war crimes."

Telemus kept his face unreadable. But he was impressed that Reed was able to echo him. While many of Admiral Gardner's men were very open with their emotions, which he noted was a bad interrogation technique, but they were also highly frustrated to find little emotional reaction from Telemus. "Why do you want my presence on your ship?" Telemus asked after a few moments.

Malcolm got to his feet, looking down at Telemus and folding his arms. "Your experience of the outside worlds."

A smile started to grow across the older man's face. He was also amused to note the look of distaste on Reed's face--obviously he was not accustom to such an expression on a being with pointed ears.

"Captain, I have to question your logic. My experience is somewhat limited in this sector of the galaxy. You clearly are much more knowledgeable," he said in a soft voice.

Malcolm's scowl deepened. "What do you know of logic, you're not a Vulcan!" He pointed at Telemus in emphasis. "You are the enemy."

"Indeed. That is an excellent observation," Telemus added. "I still do not understand why you need me on your ship, Captain."

Taking a deep breath, Malcolm seemed to compose himself again. "I have a question for you. I want to know what you did to my frie-.. to Commander Tucker."

Telemus watched him for a few moments. "I released him when he was not useful to us. After that, I am not sure what became of him, perhaps you should ask the commander himself." He paused for a moment and canted his head to the side as he regarded the figure in front of him. "Captain, if I may, you appear to be troubled."

"That is not your concern," Malcolm said shortly. "Make your choice."

He was quiet for a few moments. Reed was troubled, and he could see it in the man's worried face. He was also not sure of his intentions and what would become of him if he should choose to go, but certainly the option would be better than remaining here. Slowly Telemus nodded. "Very well. You may have me on your ship,for what ever you seem to have in mind."

* * *

Trip found himself in the unlikely place of the captain's chair. It was a spur of the moment promotion, and he looked around at the young faces of the command crew, staring back at him with fear and expectation. But all Trip could think about was his racing heart and his sweating palms gripping the cold armrests of the chair. Because space was cold.

The kid sitting at the engineering station was less than twenty years old. There was sweat on his upper lip. He was gripping the top of the console, and looking over at Trip with wide, innocent eyes. The girl at the helm had been in Jon Archer's class at the academy. She had two cats. The curly-haired young man at the communications station had just gotten married, and he was holding onto a pendant on a chain with a white-knuckled hand.

These people should not be looking to Trip Tucker for instruction. He didn't even know what to do for himself, in fact his initial instinct was to run and hide. But those eyes were on him—the eyes of children out for their first time in space. None of them knew what to expect and now faced with hopelessness, they looked to the one man who did know.

Lights were flickering on the bridge, dying away into blackness. As more of them went out, the more ghostly the faces of the anxious crew became, and the more Trip felt their eyes on him. He hadn't said a word since he had been the only one left to take the chair. He was certain if he tried, that he would be unable to make a noise.

Trip forced saliva down his throat to try to make speech possible and pry the muscles apart. "Get off the ship," he said hoarsely. "While there's time left."

For a moment, no one moved on the bridge. Trip's hand shook as it hovered over the intercom on the chair. He had to give the order. He had to make it final. Then they had to go, and he… would stay.

"Sir, we can't get away from an enemy we can't even see!" the engineer boy said quickly.

Trip jumped at the suddenness of his exclamation. "Yeah you can. You gotta leave that to me," he said before he knew his mouth was moving. His voice didn't even sound like his own, it sounded so far away. There was no sound in space. Because space was cold.

No one moved. Trip looked around at the wide eyes. "Go!" he said forcefully.

The curly-haired young man jumped up out of his chair and started to run for the turbolift. The girl with the cats to take care of followed. Then the innocent boy with tears in his eyes, he got up too. His legs didn't want to move at first, but he forced them until he was beyond Trip's vision. They all did. He pressed the button to go shipwide.

"This is acting Captain Tucker. Evacuate the ship immediately," he said clearly. "Get to your pods an' evacuate."

His finger lifted off of the button and the bird materialized in front of the view screen. Trip gripped the armrests of the chair, frozen in place. Birds couldn't breathe in space. But this one did. Because it was cold too.

He was closed off. More lights died, and he was left with a faint glow from some of the consoles with barely enough evidence to say that the ship was breathing. He couldn't even tell how many pods got away.

Trip assumed command from the chair, but their weapons were offline. Engines were offline. Lifesupport, sensors, lights, communication, hull plating. Trip Tucker was online. But not for much longer.

This wasn't the way that it happened.

The bird approached as if it was examining something already dead, and it fired several green bursts of energy. They came at him as slowly as if it was some little kid playing a game and rolling green balls along the ground. Some innocent little game. Trip knew what was coming. He had often wondered what would happen, what he would be thinking about in the end. Would he regret?

He regretted…not marrying Hoshi. Not fathering children with her. He regretted not telling Erika that Jon might be alive. He regretted that his parents would soon be without a son.

He regretted not doing more.

He regretted being scared.

Trip closed his eyes and waited. Seconds were hours in his twilight world. His cold, space world.

But when it came, he felt the impact. He screamed. He cried. He felt fire and ice at the same time. He felt hands clawing at him, taking him elsewhere. He felt violent movement and knew he was the one shaking.

He thought of Hoshi.

When Trip opened his eyes, he only saw a figure in front of him, and he wondered if this was what death really felt like. And if the man himself… was death. The man had a familiar shape. He had broad shoulders, a tall build, and short hair. He turned around and Trip recognized his eyes before he recognized his face, as Jon. Jon with a scarred throat and burned marks on his arms.

But when Jon saw Trip, his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed, and he snorted air out of his nose like a bull. He ran towards Trip at hunting speed. At the last moment, he jumped up and raised a powerful arm to strike him.

Trip screamed again.

* * *

Trip screamed again as he woke up, and he looked around the dark room as he waited for his eyes to adjust and tell him where he was. It wasn't the bridge of a dying starship, and it wasn't some blank room with… It was his parents' house. It was just home.

Next to him, Hoshi sat up quickly and carefully reached out to touch his shoulder. "Trip? Trip, babe," she said quietly, sliding her hands over his shoulders and pulling him back against her. He tried to stop shaking so much, but he couldn't. He could still feel the coldness of space.

"It's just a bad dream, sweetheart," Hoshi whispered, leaning her head against the back of his shoulder with her arms draped across him. He reached up to hold onto her arm gently and he kept breathing in and out, just staring out at the darkness of the room. It still smelled like the roast that his mother cooked for dinner when they came to stay.

It was Hoshi's idea, going to see his folks for a chance to recover. A nice vacation. It had been good until Trip woke up screaming.

The door opened a little and a man looked in on them. Trip couldn't see his father's face with the shadows the way that they were, but he could make out a yawn and see Charlie rub his eyes. "You doin' ok, Trip?" he asked quietly.

Drawing in a deep breath, Trip nodded. "Yeah, Dad.. s'ok. Just a dream."

Trip could make out Charlie's concerned face before he nodded and quietly shut the door again. Sighing, Trip reached up to rub his face, commenting that he needed some air before he carefully slipped out of Hoshi's arms.

There were a lot of crickets out, serenading each other and the stars. Sometimes there was a short chorus of frogs too, but they were only the accompaniment. One of them was a bit flat too. Trip sat on the deck in the backyard with his bad leg stretched out, and he leaned back with his elbows on the wood and looked up at the stars.

They were just other places looking back at him. Space was the void between them. It was like going from America to Europe, except much colder and more dangerous. That's why the stars were isolated and lonely, and Trip tried to shake the thoughts out of his head. He didn't want to think about what was out there.

The backdoor opened quietly and Hoshi walked out onto the deck, sitting down adjacent to him and stretching her legs out underneath his. They were both barefoot, and she was wearing shorts and a tank top because it was warm enough, and humid outside. The Florida nighttime was as heavy as day, except for the lack of the oppressive sun.

Slowly, she started to rub Trip's leg, feeling the scarring and places where muscle had been but wasn't anymore underneath the pants-leg of his pajamas. Sometimes she could feel hard parts that she knew were not a natural part of his leg, sometimes metal plates, sometimes pins and screws. It depended on how deep she massaged or in what place. Tonight she was gentle, because she knew it hurt.

Trip bit his lip for a moment and looked up again. "Does that feel any better?" Hoshi asked quietly.

"Yeah…it's ok. It's a pretty bad cramp tonight, hasn't been like this for awhile," Trip said with a sign.

"You did just get back," she said quietly, looking down at his leg.

"Yeah. I mean, it was bad on the ship, but… think we got any hyposprays left?"

"The doctor really wants you to stop relying on those so much, Trip."

"I ain't relying on them, it just really hurts."

She was quiet again, watching her fingers work through the damaged areas of his leg. "I know it does," she said slowly. "Tell me what hurts, babe,"

His leg tensed briefly with a twinge of pain. He refused to look at the stars, and looked out towards the land, where the crickets and the frogs were. "It all just hurts."

"Can you give me some specifics? Maybe we can work on it," she said, looking up at him and trying to smile.

Trip avoided her gaze, but he reached for one of her hands and held her fingers tightly. "It's just you know… it's cold. I…" His voice faltered. "I don't know. I can't tell you."

Hoshi rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand and sighed softly. "Yes you can. Don't run from me, you can tell me. Please."

He shivered a little. "It was just.. stuff. Stuff 'bout space, stuff 'bout um.. the crew. 'Bout people I knew at one point, you know… Stuff 'bout..what nightmares are made of. That's what it is, I think. That's what space is."

They had only met after Morpheus, the only Trip she ever knew was the broken one with a limp in his walk. It frustrated her sometimes—it frustrated her now, but she didn't give up on him. She also had to tell herself that she didn't just love him because he was broken, or she didn't love him to fix him. She loved him for being Trip, because she could see who he used to be, and she could see who he was becoming, and who he was now. She had to tell herself because sometimes she didn't believe it.

"What did you see?" she asked quietly. "Tell me, Trip…"

Trip closed his eyes and he opened his mouth, but then he closed it again. Desperately, he wanted to tell her about the dream; that he dreamed he died because he was heroic and sacrificed himself, and his thoughts were with her. But he was terrified, and Jon…

There was a pang of guilt with Jon, who had been engaged to Erika before they left, and Trip could have done something to save him, he hadn't even met Hoshi yet. Surely Hoshi would have found another man. Jon would be the captain of Enterprise by now if he was still…alive.

He didn't know what to make of Jon in his dream. Maybe that scared him the most.

By now, Hoshi had recognized he wasn't going to say anything, and she brought a hand up to the side of his face. "Please Trip," she said, with frustration coming through in her voice. "You have to let this out."

You have to get over this and move on, she meant, and he knew it. You can't be afraid to step on a shuttlepod, you have skills that this planet desperately needs and you need to get over your childish fear and go. You need to grow up and stop hiding behind your bad leg.

She sighed and Trip opened his eyes again, glancing at her a little, testing the waters of her face. But she didn't let go of his hand, she just squeezed it again. "I um… agreed to take a posting on board Enterprise. I meant to tell you before today, before Malcolm…" She trailed off, and then looked down at the deck. "Well, I'm still going. I had to make a decision, I think this is the right one."

Trip felt his throat close up a little. The image of throat-scarred Jon flashed in his mind briefly and he didn't know where it came from at all. Despite being on Enterprise when the bomb went off, Hoshi was still willing to go, and nearly 8 years past Morpheus, Trip still could barely step onto a ship of his own free will. She was stronger than he was, that much was clear.

"That's.. the right choice," he said in a thick voice. "You'd do good there."

Hoshi nodded a little, and her hand slipped away from his. "I think I'm going to go back to bed."

As she got up and walked to the backdoor, he watched. Trip's leg started to throb again. The crickets got a little louder after she left, and he looked out towards the other buildings and trees and grass, just the things that made it home. Trip was sure that there were moments that he felt more miserable than he did now, but none really came to mind.

Inside the house, Hoshi laid awake in bed for an hour exactly, because she watched the clock increase minute by minute until it was the next hour. They were staying in a guestroom downstairs instead of in Trip's old room because it was easier for him with his leg the way it was. She thought maybe it was easier too, because there were still pictures in Trip's room, of crewmembers who were dead. She didn't know if the dead were worse than his leg. Hoshi closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but she still couldn't.

After the clock had shown another few minutes, Trip came back and stood in the doorway as just a shadow. When she heard him, she sat up a little, trying to see his face, but she couldn't in the shadow, not very well.

He tugged at the edge of his shirt nervously, and she watched him shift the weight off of his leg to lean against the doorframe. "Um.." he said, splitting the darkness with his voice. "Um, you can tell Erika.. I'll be comin' too."

The clock ticked by another minute before Hoshi climbed out of bed and stood in front of him, then she slid her arms around his waist and held him close. She felt him sigh as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and she gladly stood in the shadow with him.

* * *

When Reyna sat in her chair, she kept one hand on her honor blade and the other on the armrest, leaning to one side as she watched the viewscreen of her ship. She was watching the two patrolling Andorian ships around a harmless moon on the edge of their pathetic empire.

"Commander, we are picking up Andorian transmissions from the planet," one of officers informed her, looking at her with a perpetually angry brow.

Reyna's brow was smooth, unlike the rest of her crew. She had been unfortunate enough to inherit her father's genes, giving her looks that she considered to be extremely undesirable. She was much stronger than any of the Vulcan race that she unfortunately resembled.

Turning to look at the officer, she nodded. "Keep monitoring the frequency and decipher it."

The helmsman turned just a little to display a pointed ear in her direction. "Are we going to attack them, Commander? Their shields and weapons are no match for ours."

Reyna lifted her chin a little. "No. I just want to watch and see what they do. Andorians are too small of a catch for us. We need something much more substantial."


	16. Chapter 16

You guys, this story is way the longest thing I've ever written and it's still going with no end in sight. Which is insane. But cool? There's a cliffhanger. Because I'm mean. Also..... should people show interest, I have started a Star Trek XI story set in the Animal universe. If you want me to post it, I will. If not, I might anyway because I'm just like that. I really appreciate all of your feedback and for sticking with me even if I take forever to post. The coming semester I may be slow again because of big classes (omg.. Old English grad seminar yikes). But I'm not giving up, still have plenty of ideas, and if I stop working on this story pirate Malcolm might come to arrest me or something. Enjoy, and please review. :D

* * *

Part 16

T'Pol had never observed Jon eating before. She noted that it took on a ritual-like appearance. Frequently when she visited him, she brought food with her as well because she saw that Zane cared little for the well-being of his slaves other than that they were functional, and certainly Salt and Pepper had other things on their mind. Twice daily rations, if that, did not seem enough to sustain a large man like Jon.

She always gave him food in a package because Vulcans found the handling of food with their bare hands to be distasteful. Upon receiving the package, Jon inspected it. He turned it over in his hands and then sniffed it, while keeping his attention also on her. T'Pol only stood to the side with her hands behind her back and watched as he tore into the packaging to get to the meat and the protein enriched bread.

When he retreated into the corner of his cell, she didn't move, not at first. Jon slid down to the ground as far back as he could squeeze his broad shoulders into the meeting of the two walls, and he sniffed the meat again before he ripped off a piece with his teeth. He held it with both hands and kept the bread on his lap as he pulled his knees up closer to his chest. She recognized it as his safe position.

Slowly T'Pol began to approach. She watched his eyes dart up immediately to watch her, but his pace of devouring the piece of meat didn't slow any. He reminded T'Pol of a tamed sehlat, much like the one that she had in her youth. It was the way that he looked at her. Jon was always gentle towards her, but she was sure that if she got too close he might actually lash out or even bite her hand if she tried to take it away. Instead, she crouched down in front of him and held her hands up in a neutral manner.

There was the faintest change in his gaze that allowed her to sit down. There were times when she visited that she spoke to him about things—possibly things he didn't understand or care about, and she really didn't know if he was listening or not, but the fact that he was there and to some degree that he could never repeat anything she said was what drew her. But there were other times, in a much larger frequency than the times when she would talk, that they would sit with each other in silence. T'Pol found that with Jon, she didn't always need words to communicate. He was extremely expressive when she knew what to look for, and she felt certain that he was learning to read her too.

He picked up the large piece of bread and smelled it first, but then he broke a section of it off and looked over at her. T'Pol was surprised to see the change in the ritual, and she was even more surprised when Jon held the piece out to her.

She raised both eyebrows. "That is yours."

Jon extended his arm again more sharply and she could hear his breathing shorten just a little. He looked frustrated that she didn't take it, and he insisted again, holding the piece of bread out to her.

It would be pointless to explain to him that Vulcans didn't touch food with their hands and that she had brought the bread for him. It wasn't that he wouldn't understand, but that he was very insistent that she take the bread, and reluctantly she reached out to do so.

When he saw that she had it, he relaxed a little back into his cover and took a bite out of his piece of bread. But Jon kept his eyes on her to see what she would do.

She looked down at the bread in her hands for a moment, realizing how much it meant to him. Jon was holding his food close, and that look he had earlier, afraid she would take it away. But he gave her some—he trusted her enough to give her some of his food. Slowly she took a bite of the bread and looked over at him for approval.

The tension in Jon's body eased and he let his legs slid away so he wasn't curled up so tightly, then he smiled.

* * *

Typically when T'Pol went anywhere with Jon, he was the one leading her ahead by her hand, but today T'Pol led Jon. It was a new experience for him because this was T'Pol's territory. Jon wasn't often allowed outside of his cell on ships unless it was for training or for some kind of work. And he preferred it that way because there was something in his mind that he couldn't explain that told him that space travel was dangerous. He considered that it could be a warning left over from the Before-Time.

But T'Pol was safe, and he trusted her as a Food Sharer, so he went along with her, holding onto her hand tightly. He hadn't seen much of Zane's ship and it was big; he didn't want to get lost if he got separated from her because that would lead to punishment. He didn't think that T'Pol would let him get lost though.

She was different from the other Vulcans he knew because she came back and she didn't ask anything of him, which was rare in of itself. That was why she was a Food Sharer; she didn't want anything from him, she just came. Most Vulcans felt cold to him. T'Pol's hands were warm and soft.

They weren't accompanied by anyone, not the tall Vulcan who was always with her, and not even Salt and Pepper. Jon didn't want to think that this might be a change in her pattern, that she might be doing something different or bad, because he wanted to keep her this way. But he carried too many memories to forget what others had done to him.

But when she brought him to an unusual door, Jon's curiosity won out over his memories, and he walked through first into the empty room, letting her follow this time. It wasn't a large room, though there was plenty of room to move and it was bigger than a few cells put together. There was a large oval shape raised out of the floor in the middle for sitting on and he walked around it as he headed for the most impressive window that stood from floor to ceiling, slanted to give more space, and it wrapped from one side of the room to the other in a half circle, looking outward.

Jon placed his free hand on the window and looked out at the stars that shot by them, painting a trail in their wake. There were thousands of streaks in the window, thousands of stars and planets and systems that they were passing by and to see them all at once as they disappeared off into the distance as soon as they had come…was captivating. He didn't let go of T'Pol's hand, but his focus was solely on the view of the stars outside of their ship.

She moved up beside him next to the window and kept her hand comfortably in his. "This is the observation deck. I thought that you might find it interesting."

Looking over at her, he let out a short breath in what could have been a laugh, and he smiled anyway, before he stepped closer to the window, as close as he could get without touching it. Not even the warning of the danger of space from the Before-Time was enough to pull him away from the window. Jon's blood pulsed through his body at the same speed as the passing stars because he had the strong desire to be part of them.

* * *

They sat on the oval for a long time and watched the space outside. T'Pol was quiet, but Jon could feel her sitting next to him. He pointed out things that caught his interest; bigger stars, brighter stars, blue ones and red ones, but she was still quiet, just remaining next to him. He wasn't bored with watching the stars when he transferred his attention and looked over at her.

Vulcans were difficult to read, and Jon often had trouble knowing what to look for with signs of danger or punishment, which were most important. T'Pol wasn't easy to read, but she was more open. It was her eyes. He could see bright stars in her eyes sometimes that told him what to look for. The rest of her face was calm and emotionless, but her eyes told him that she was curious, and perhaps concerned.

She expressed that she was pleased he liked the room. She talked about a few other things, but Jon didn't answer. He looked back to the stars a couple of times, but then he looked at her eyes. Talking wasn't really how she communicated with him, it was a secondary medium, used for clarification and specifics.

He watched her draw in a deep breath and then she spoke again. "Do you trust me?"

A Food Sharer was an ultimate sign of trust, but he didn't have any means of presenting it here. He had showed her earlier in the cell, and his trust hadn't changed. Jon nodded his head.

T'Pol moved to face him a little more, touching her knee against his. "Do you trust that I will not harm you?"

Slowly, he nodded again, more curious than afraid of her. He did trust that T'Pol wouldn't hurt him. She was Good.

"Then I must know," she said with a deep breath and brought a hand to the side of his face. "Do not be afraid."

He knew what she was doing then, and his body tensed. This had happened before. The first thing that greeted T'Pol when she entered his mind was fear.

* * *

_Fear was an unusual emotion for her, especially at this strength, and it pushed her back some, but she kept going further. His ability to form mental blocks was not very strong, because of his lack of experience in mental discipline that a Vulcan or other telepathic species might have. The entrance into his mind was only hindered by the fear, and once she made it past that, T'Pol found herself standing in the network of Jon's mind._

_She was herself, standing on a white surface. There were swirling images around her like mirrors, but none of them made much sense because they moved too quickly, and instead she only felt an intense wave of emotion as one passed through her._

"_Jon? Jon, you must calm yourself," she said into the white space._

_She hadn't imagined that his mind would be white and clean, but it seemed as if someone made it this way and it was unnatural. T'Pol could still feel him guarding himself, and she stepped out further onto the white plane._

"_Jon. Come out. It is safe," she said._

_One of the swirls of mental energy swept through her and the white changed into dark, like wood. A wooden floor, and wooden wall panels that were all dark, and she could see a figure sitting in the corner, drawn up as Jon did in his protective way. T'Pol walked closer slowly, but she didn't entirely close the space. Instead she held her hand out and willed him to come to her._

_The figure shifted a little, but didn't come out. T'Pol took another step closer. "Come to me, Jon."_

_She could feel the thick apprehension like humidity in the climate of his mind that stuck to her throat and lungs. But slowly the figure got to his feet and moved out of the shadow towards her. _

_He was a boy, still in childhood, not quite in adolescence. His brown hair was messy and unkempt. He had the same green eyes though. "T'Pol?"_

_She was unsure if it was the close proximity of his emotions or something else within herself that made her feel relief when the boy Jon came forward. But she was surprised at his mental perception. T'Pol held her hand out to him. "Hello Jon."_

_The expressions he conveyed to her on the outside were exactly the same on the mental form of the boy. His eyebrows moved inward, cinched together and he looked up at her, blinking repeatedly with wide eyes, then he reached out to take her hand. Even in the mind, the connection felt real, as if she was holding his hand outside. She watched some of the tension disappear from his face. "Hello T'Pol," he said in a small voice._

_T'Pol wanted to smile, and she had to fight the strong urge off. She didn't smile, or even have the desire to; not even for Jon, but her face eased and she felt a peaceful calm. "We can speak with each other now."_

"_You can't tell anyone. It's bad," Jon said, holding onto her hand tightly. _

_She calmly raised an eyebrow at his statement. "Why is it bad, Jon?"_

_He sighed, and he moved a little closer to her, up against her side. "Talking is bad. There's no talking. Or writing, that's bad too. We won't get in trouble, will we?" he asked, looking up at her._

"_No, we will not get in trouble for this. It is acceptable for you to speak to me." She reached over and placed a hand on the top of his head in a stiff replication of a human motion. But she thought it might calm him some. He seemed pleased with it and looked up at her with a small smile._

"_You're warm," Jon said._

"_Thank you," she replied, feeling the ease settle into his mind. She let go of his hand and knelt down in front of him. She was at his level, even if he was taller now. "Jon, if I asked you some questions, would you answer them? Would you show me things?"_

_The calmness that he felt was obviously brief as she saw and felt the anxiety return. It was strange to be experiencing what he felt all the time. T'Pol's mind was simple, calm and organized, but Jon was raw emotion. She began to understand how he could fight as well as he did in the arena._

"_Jon, tell me how you came to be here, where you came from. Who brought you here?"_

_The boy chewed on his lip and he looked away from her, shaking his head. T'Pol reached up to put a hand on his cheek and drew his face back to hers. "No one will punish you if you tell me. You may show me."_

"_They did," the boy said in a quiet voice. "The men did. The bad men."_

"_Can you show me? I will protect you."_

"_I can't…I don't remember," Jon said, looking at her urgently. "Please don't make me remember. They are bad men. They look like you…"_

_She felt a focused wave of fear and she had to struggle to maintain her focus on their link. She saw the image of Jon shimmer a little. "I will not hurt you," she said, placing her hand on the top of his head and stroking his hair back. "I am not bad. Where did you come from, was it Earth?"_

_He swallowed hard. "I.. don't remember."_

"_You must know where you were raised, your parents… you must know your planet."_

_Jon looked back at her and slowly lowered his eyes as he shook his head. "The bad men took it away. They made me forget. I don't remember the Before-Time…" _

_Instead of continuing, Jon froze. His body was set and tense, and he looked like he did in the arena; listening, examining the air, except that the outside world couldn't be viewed by their mental avatars. "Something's here," Jon said just above a whisper. "Bad is coming."_

_

* * *

  
_

T'Pol pulled her hand back from Jon's face and she stared at his eyes. He looked startled, still holding her gaze. He was fully a man; large, strong, broad-shouldered, with stubble on his face. But he was a boy in those eyes, that's what she hadn't been able to explain. It was still only part of the mystery; she was pleased to have found that she could talk to him inside his mind. T'Pol wanted to help him—she had to.

Jon was the first one to break their gaze, and he looked around the observation room; his breath quickened, and he was smelling the air for something unfamiliar. There was a faint trembling in the ship's deck, and T'Pol looked over to the window to notice that they weren't at warp anymore.

The door to the observation deck opened and Mertil walked in quickly, carrying a weapon at his side. "Milady, the ship is under attack, you must come with me."

She got to her feet to face Mertil and glanced out the window as if trying to see what was happening outside of the ship. There was another rumble through the ship and Jon jumped up beside her, grasping her hand. "I told Zane these corridors of space were much too dangerous. Is the ship compromised, Mertil?"

"No Milady, but you need to be secure," Mertil said, and looked over his shoulder at the door. "You must come with me.

T'Pol wasn't afraid of the attack. Vulcans weren't afraid, and either way Zane's ship had to be well-equipped for the amount of property and stock he owned. Pirates who attacked in these areas stung like the Deleroid flower insect, but similarly after the sting, they were harmless. She looked back at Jon and noted the fear on his face. Some of his emotion was left over in her from the meld, and she.. felt what he felt. "Come," she said quietly and pulled on his hand.

Jon followed as closely to her as he could. Bad men attacked ships like these.


End file.
